Shadow on the Sun by Richard Matheson Page A

with his palm, he held it close to Little Owl’s face.
    â€œGood God.”
Boutelle’s voice was faint.
    If ever a look of heart-wrenched terror had been imprinted on a man’s face, it was on Little Owl’s. The dark features were stiff with it; the mud-caked lips drawn back frozenly in a hideous grin of fright, the dark eyes open wide and staring. It took an effort for Finley to force down the lids of those horror-stricken eyes.
    â€œWhat in God’s name happened to him?” a sickened Boutelle asked.
    Again, Finley didn’t answer. He ran the candle flame along the length of the Apache’s body, looking for a wound. As he did, the tight pain in his eyes began changing.
    â€œThere’s not a mark on him,” he said quietly. The very quietness of his voice seemed to underline the words.
    â€œHis heart then,” said Boutelle. It sounded less like a statement than an uneasy question.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Finley.
    Letting the rain douse the candle, he shut the cover of the match case and slid it back into his shirt pocket. Then, raising Little Owl to a limp, sitting position, he lifted the dead Indian across his shoulder.
    It was remarkable how light he was, Finley could not help thinking. It was as if once the weight of self-respect had gone from Little Owl, his body had complied with the loss, grown fragile and honeycombed with the weightlessness of defeat. Some men, in loss, grow heavy, thought Finley. Some merely wasted away like Little Owl.
    He didn’t notice where the eyes of Little Owl’s wife were looking as he passed her. If he had noticed and thought about it, he would have guessed that her gaze was averted because she was afraid to look upon death until the actual moment of bodily preparation.
    He was unaware of the fact that she had seen the tall, broad formstanding in the shadows across the street from them. He was unaware that the stricture around her heart was so close to that stricture which had killed her husband that she, herself, almost lost the power to breathe and stand and almost went pitching forward into the mud.
    Darkness wavered behind the woman’s eyes. Horror sucked at her breath, licked across her brain with a cold, rasping tongue. Only the greatest exertion of will kept her on her feet. With a drawn-in gasp of air, she pushed away from the bank and followed Boutelle closely. She must not look at the tall, dark figure, she knew. He must not realize that she knew of his presence. If she died now, then all was lost.
    Back inside the office, Finley lowered the body to the bench beside the door and covered it with his slicker. The expression on Little Owl’s face, as it was hidden away, fused itself into Finley’s consciousness like a brand seared into flesh.
    â€œI’ll take him to your—” he began to say in Apache before he realized that Little Owl’s wife was not there.
    He looked over at Boutelle. “Where did she go?” he asked.
    â€œI didn’t see,” the younger man answered. He couldn’t take his eyes off the covered figure on the bench.
    â€œWasn’t she with us?”
    Boutelle swallowed. “I thought so.”
    Finley went over to the door and opened it. Stepping out onto the walk, he looked toward the south end of town but saw nothing. Grunting, he went back inside and closed the door. He walked across the office and entered the small hallway that led to the back door. He found the door slightly ajar. She had gone this way then. But why? She should have stayed and gone with the body when Finley took it to her wickiup for burial preparation.
    Shaking his head, Finley closed the back door firmly and turned.And this had started out, in the words of Appleface Kelly, as a “gala day.” Well, it had, very early, turned into something far different.
    â€œWhy did she leave?” asked Boutelle.
    â€œApache dread of death,” said Finley, not wanting Boutelle to