Free Shadow on the Sun by Richard Matheson Page B

a giant animal could have torn them so. Was that possible? Finley thought suddenly.
    No. It was that man. Behind all sensible thoughts, the secret place of his mind knew that somehow that man was responsible. But how? The conscious mind could not imagine an answer. How could one man do what had been done to those two, husky young men?
    There was only one course he could think of in the midst of all this, to ride to Braided Feather’s camp immediately—or to the reservation if they had already reported there—and find out whothe man was and why the Apaches feared him. He’d take Corcoran along. He didn’t dare leave the grief-maddened man to himself. He had planned to wait for Professor Dodge’s return, but there was no time for waiting now; that was frighteningly clear. Something had to be done immediately.
    Boutelle followed him back into the office—a paler, far less steady man than had left it minutes before.
    â€œAnd you defend them,” he said, his voice thickened by the horror he had just witnessed.
    â€œNo Indian did that,” was all that Finley could think of saying.
    â€œThen what did, Mr. Finley?” demanded Boutelle.
    Finley sank down heavily on the bench where Little Owl had lain the night before. He’d taken the body to its wickiup an hour earlier. Yes—what did? his mind repeated. And what had made the old Apache die without a single mark on him?
    â€œI don’t know, Mr. Boutelle,” he answered. “I only wish I did.” He exhaled slowly. “I only know it wasn’t Braided Feather’s—”
    â€œFinley, you’re blind!” cried Boutelle. “Or mad—or worse!”
    At any other time, Finley would have lost his temper at such vitriolic, accusing words. Yet now, off balance, he only looked up defenselessly at the younger man’s infuriated expression.
    â€œAre you going to the fort?” challenged Boutelle.
    Finley rubbed a hand across his dry lips. What answer could he give that would not brand him as brainlessly submissive?
    He could only shake his head, not in answer so much as in reflection of his perplexity.
    â€œI see,” said Boutelle, and for a second, Finley almost envied the simple clarity with which the younger man saw the situation, devoid of complications, of perilous possibilities.
    â€œThen I’ll ride there myself with Mr. Corcoran,” said Boutelle. “I shall have dispatched a—”
    â€œ
You will not.
” Anger came at least strongly enough to stiffen Finley’s words and make him stand abruptly. “Now you listen to—”
    He grabbed Boutelle’s arms as the younger man started turning and twisted him back. “I said
listen
!” he snapped.
    â€œIf you think—”
    â€œThere’s more involved here—”
    â€œGet your hands off me!”
    â€œâ€”than just a senseless Indian murder!” Finley drowned him out. “Use your brains! What possible good could Braided Feather have gotten out of murdering two of our citizens on the very day he agreed to a peace treaty with us! After ten years of constant battle! No! I say, no! It wasn’t Indians!”
    â€œAnd I say only an Indian could do what was done to those men!” Boutelle lashed back. “I say only an Indian could
conceive
of it!”
    â€œYou don’t—”
    â€œI’m riding to that fort, Mr. Finley!” the younger man yelled. “With you—or without you!”
    â€œ
You are not!
” roared Finley, his hands tightening so hard on the younger man’s arms that Boutelle winced. “I’m the authorized agent for this territory and until I’m replaced, it’s my decision to make! And I say there’ll be no soldiers yet!”
    Boutelle’s repression of fury was easily visible. Finley could almost see him swallow it.
    â€œVery well,” the younger man said in a tight, quiet voice. “Very well, Mr.