Shadow on the Sun by Richard Matheson

place.
    But Little Owl had only shaken his head and refused to speak of it. He had been too long among the white men. The instincts of his fathers had died in him, and he no longer believed in signs and omens. It was at that moment, as he turned away from her in silence, that she knew something would happen. Little Owl’s failure to believe would cause it.
    She did not enter the alley for a long time. First, at Finley’s word, she had gone to the Sidewinder Saloon and peered inside, holding one of the swinging doors ajar. But Little Owl was not in there. Nor was he in the Silver Hall Saloon, sitting, as he usually did, at a corner table with a stein of beer in front of him.
    And he was not anywhere along the boardwalks. Often, when he had drunk so much that he could not get back to the wickiup, he would curl up on a bench along the walk. She would find him there and help him onto the back of their pony. The horse she would not let him take from the wickiup because she knew that he would only sell it for drink money.
    And what an endless anguish it was in her woman’s heart to have her husband, mute and without fire, allow her to forbid him anything. In his younger days, when they had lived among their own people, he would have beaten her if she dared to withhold anything from him. He would have flung her to the ground and shouted at her in a fury,
I am the head of our family and no squaw will tell me what to do or not to do!
    It was the measure of his fall that he no longer offered to beat or strike her, no longer contested her words at any time. He only grunted and shook or nodded his head and shambled toward Picture City for drink. Yes, it was an evilly distorted world they lived in now.
    She did not see Little Owl at first when she entered the alley. She did not believe that she would find him there, but she knew that she must look in every place before she dared return to Finley and ask for his help. What if he asked her—Did you look in such a place?—and she had to answer, in truth—No, I did not. No, she must try all the places before she—
    Then she saw her husband lying in the mud.
    It was two things at once to her; first, an icy constriction in herbowels and stomach, a thumping pressure at her temples. Yet, at the same time, almost a relief because the sight of him there was proof that the omen had been true and that some values in their life, at least, remained as they should.
    It was not until she bent over him, however, that she knew his death and the hideousness of it.
    A sound of animal pain tore the lips drawn back from her teeth, and with a sharp intake of breath, she scuttled backward. In her haste, she slipped and fell. Scrambling to her feet again, she started running, all the black horrors in her world pursuing her.
    By the time she reached Finley’s office, she could hardly breathe. Wheezing, she fell against the door, clubbing weakly at the glass.
    Finley had to catch her when he opened the door.
    â€œ
What
?” he asked her in Apache.
    She could not speak. Only sobbing gasps escaped her lips as she pointed down the street.
    Hastily, Finley ran over to the stove and pulled his boots on. Then, grabbing his jacket off the clothes tree, he hurried outside, feeling the clutch of the woman’s hand on his sleeve as they started along the walk. Behind them, he heard the fall of Boutelle’s following boots.
    She would not go up the alley again. She stood pressed against the side of the bank, shivering impotently as Finley and Boutelle walked in to where the body lay. Finley squatted down and turned Little Owl onto his back, his hand sliding underneath the Apache’s buckskin shirt.
    â€œDead,” he murmured.
    â€œIs it one of those two men?” asked Boutelle.
    Finley didn’t answer. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out his match case. Opening it, he struck a match and lit the wick of the tiny candle inserted in the case. Then, roofing the flame