Shadow on the Sun (14 page)

Boutelle could not deny that Finley's point was well-taken. Still . . .

“And that, knowing full well that one of the main conditions of
the treaty is that they keep their distance from Picture City, he'd ride into town with his braves the very next morning?”

“Well . . .” Boutelle felt his conviction fading.

“They came in to see that man,” Finley said. “If they'd come as hostiles, they could have wiped us out at that time of morning. You know that.”

“I don't,” Boutelle said. “I'll take your word on it, though.”

“You do admit they were afraid of that man and left within seconds of seeing him?”

“I . . . suppose,” Boutelle had to admit, albeit reluctantly.

“David,” Finley said. Boutelle tensed a little at the admonishing tone in Finley's voice; that he did not appreciate. “These aren't dime-novel Indians. These are bone-seasoned Apache warriors. Believe me, there is very little in this world that frightens them. But that man frightens them.”

Boutelle nodded slightly. “Well, he certainly seems to frighten Professor Dodge,” he said.

“Terrifies him, David,” Finley said. “Terrifies him.”

He hesitated, then said, “I'll tell you something. He kind o' scares the bejesus out of me as well.”

He told Boutelle about his rejected inclination to await the marshal's return and try to put the man in jail for horse stealing. “Not to mention murder,” he finished.

Then he told Boutelle about finding Al Corcoran's butchered remains.

“I've seen victims of Apache raids,” he said. “They did some pretty god-awful things. But nothing like that.”

“Which has been my point—” Boutelle almost said “Billjohn,” then couldn't make himself do it. “The Apaches—the Indians—are well-known for their atrocities. You can't deny that.”

“I don't deny it,” Finley said. “I'm just saying that these atrocities go way beyond what I've seen them do.”

“Then how could that man be responsible?” Boutelle challenged. “How could any one man be responsible for these things?”

“I don't know,” Finley murmured. He added something in such a low voice that Boutelle couldn't hear it.

“What?” he asked. It made him uneasy to see how obviously Finley swallowed.

“I said, if he
is
a man,” the agent said.

Boutelle felt himself shudder involuntarily. “What do you—” He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

Finley didn't answer at first. All Boutelle could hear was the crackle of the low fire and sounds in the night, birds and animals. He stared at the agent's face, firelight reflected on it.

Finley looked away, troubled.

Finally, the agent sighed and tossed his cigar into the fire.

“I'm thinking of the look on Little Owl's face,” he said. “You saw it. If ever a man died of fright, it was him.”

He hesitated, then continued. “I saw the same look on Al Corcoran's face when I . . . picked up his head,” he told Boutelle, who winced at his words.

“You saw the look on Tom Corcoran's face. It was the same look—absolute horror.”

He drew in a deep, laboring breath and released it slowly.

“I imagine we'd have seen the same look on Jim Corcoran's face, too,” he said, “if his face hadn't been ripped off.”

Boutelle winced again. More and more, he was losing confidence in what he'd been convinced of earlier. He tried to believe that it was because of the darkness, the sounds, and the firelight glinting on Finley's harrowed expression. But it wouldn't wash. The Indian
agent was right. There were too many abnormal factors in this situation to ignore.

“I'm thinking about the Night Doctor. I'm wondering why that man is so anxious to see a discredited shaman, a medicine man who was banished from his tribe for performing ceremonies he wasn't supposed to perform.”

They sat in silence, Finley staring gravely into the fire, Boutelle watching him with a sense of deep disquiet.

“You know,” Finley said after a while, “back East, it's civilized and all the mysteries have been dispelled by that civilization. Out here, it's easier to believe that there's still a lot of unexplored ground. A lot of secrets.”

He paused again, then added quietly, “I'm thinking of that thick scar around the man's entire neck. When I mentioned it, he smiled at me and said that someone had once cut off his head.”

Boutelle wished desperately now that he could speak up and refute the agent's increasingly alarming words. He couldn't, though.

He started as he heard a horrible screeching noise in the distance, looked quickly at Finley. The other man had not responded to the sound.

“What was that?” Boutelle had to ask.

“Owl killing something,” Finley said. “Or a hawk.” He shrugged. “Maybe an eagle.”

W
hile
they were riding the next day, heading toward the mountains, Finley following signs Boutelle couldn't see, they began to talk about Indians.

In the daylight—there was even an occasional glow of sunshine to warm the cold air—Boutelle regained some of his confidence in past convictions. The soreness from the rattler bite was almost gone as well, and uncharitable though it was, with little to remind him physically of what Finley had done, it was easier to retrieve beliefs he'd held for so many years.

“About these Plains Indians,” he began.

“David, there was no such thing until the Spanish brought in horses.”

“And the Indians stole them,” Boutelle countered.

“Or traded for them,” Finley said. “They were farmers and hunters until they got the horses.”

“I was under the impression that the Apache nation—” Boutelle started.

“There
is
no Apache nation,” Finley cut him off. “There are only clans and kinship groupings.

“For that matter, isn't it stupid that we call them Indians at all? What if Columbus had thought he'd landed in Turkey instead of India? Would we call them turkeys?”

“Mr. . . . Billjohn,” Boutelle said, grimacing slightly. “What do you want to call them?”

“People,” Finley said. “That's what they call themselves. How about the first Americans? They were here before we were.”

Boutelle sighed. “I hear your Rutgers background speaking now,” he said.

They rode in silence for a while. Then Boutelle spoke again.

“You admitted last night that the Apaches have done some god-awful things,” he started.

“And we've done some god-awful things to them,” Finley said.

He is really in a bellicose frame of mind today, Boutelle thought.

“As I heard a man in White River say to a companion,” he prodded Finley, “
haul in your horns.
By which—”

He broke off as Finley snickered. Clearly, the agent knew exactly what he meant.

“You're right,” Finley said. “I'm sorry. I'll try to speak my piece without rattling my tail.

“It's a little difficult for me, though. I was a history major at Rutgers—American history. I wrote my Master's thesis on the Indian situation.”

Boutelle was surprised. He'd had no idea the man was that well educated. He felt a twinge of guilt.

“You think the problem started only ten or twenty years ago?” Finley continued. “Indians were living on the East Coast more than forty years ago. Living in peace with their neighbors. In log cabins. Wearing homespun clothing. The Cherokees, the Chickasaws, the
Choctaws, Creeks, and Seminoles. They were called the Five Civilized Tribes. Their leaders could read and write English. Their people intermarried with the whites.

“Then Andrew Jackson decided that they didn't belong there. So he had Congress pass legislation to move the Indians to ‘an ample district west of the Mississippi.' ” His tone was bitter as he quoted.

“It took nine years to get it done, but by God they got it done,” he went on. “Sixty thousand Indians rounded up at gunpoint and marched west under military guard.

“Only fourteen thousand of them survived it.”

He smiled and shook his head; it was a smile devoid of humor. “Eventually, the land they'd been given was taken away from them.”

He grunted. “That's the way it worked from the start,” he said. “We gave them land—that was already theirs, of course. Then when we wanted that land for building or mining or farming or grazing, we took it back and gave them other land further out. Until the land they were given was so bad they decided to fight back. At which point, we began calling them savages.”

Boutelle felt as though he should say something to refute what Finley had told him. He couldn't, though. He couldn't think of anything to say.

“I've been an Indian agent for seven years, David,” Finley continued. “My job has been to issue supplies and annuities to the Apaches. Annuities that never arrived on time. Supplies that got sold or stolen before they reached me.

“I'm supposed to tell the Indians how nice their lives will be on reservations like the one at San Carlos, which is a malaria-ridden hellhole.

“Of course, no matter what I do, it's hopeless. The Apaches are finished. All the Indians are finished. They got in our way. We
wanted their land so we took it. Their days are written on the sand. You and I may not live to see it, but it's going to happen, it's inevitable.”

He sighed and smiled bitterly. “Listen, if you think I've got diarrhea of the jawbone, just tell me so. I have a tendency to run on for a day and a half when I talk about the Indians.”

They rode in silence for a long while before Boutelle felt compelled to speak.

“Listen . . . Billjohn,” he said, “I've lived an isolated life. My family has a lot of money and it made existence very easy for me. I rode, I hunted, I hiked. I traveled the world. Graduated from the best schools.

“My father got me an appointment in the Department of the Interior. I thought I was equipped to handle it. Like so many people back East, I thought I understood the Indian situation perfectly. I read the newspapers, read the dispatches. You're right; I thought of them as savages. I probably still feel that way deep inside. But you've given me a lot to think about I never had before, and I thank you for it.”

Finley's smile was broad and genial. He edged his horse close to Boutelle's and extended his hand.

Boutelle tried not to wince at the power of the agent's grip. He managed to return Finley's smile.

Then Finley sighed again.

“Now all we have to do is locate Braided Feather,” he said. “Try to find out what the hell is going on.”

 

The dogs
were at them first, crashing from the underbrush with angry snarls, lips curled back from yellow fangs, eyes glittering with menace.

Boutelle reined in hard as the running pack began snapping at
his horse's legs. His mount began to twist and buck, nickering in alarm, trying to avoid the dogs' teeth. From the corners of his eyes, he saw Finley trying to hold in his mare as well, cursing at the dogs.

Then Apaches were surrounding them, pointing rifles, dark faces impassive. The dogs drew back, still snarling, as Finley spoke to the threatening braves.

At first it seemed it wasn't going to work; the Indians raised their rifles as though to fire.

Then Lean Bear appeared from the woods and, seeing Finley, ordered off his men. Finley thanked him.

“Why are you here?” Lean Bear asked suspiciously.

“I must speak to Braided Feather,” Finley answered.

“We are not going back to our camp,” Lean Bear told him.

“I understand that,” Finley replied. “I, too, am concerned about that man and wish to speak to your father about him.”

Lean Bear said something in Apache which, Boutelle thought, was obviously spoken in bitter scorn. Then he gestured to Finley for the mare's reins, and Finley tossed them over his horse's head so Lean Bear could grab them.

He looked at Boutelle. “Give them your reins,” he said. “And your weapon,” he added, slipping his rifle from its scabbard and giving it to Lean Bear, then handing down his pistol.

Boutelle threw the reins of his horse across its head, and a brave took hold of them. Removing his pistol carefully from its holster, he handed it down, butt first, to the Indian's reaching hand, hoping that he wasn't committing suicide by doing so.

The dogs kept circling, growling and baring their teeth as their horses walked skittishly among the Apaches.

“I gather the dogs don't like us,” Boutelle said to break the silence.

“They don't like the way we smell,” Finley responded.

Boutelle swallowed, looking around. Through the undergrowth, he could see other braves watching them, some armed with rifles, some with bows and arrows.

“What did . . .” His voice faded, and as Finley looked at him, he nodded toward Lean Bear.

“What?” Finley asked.

“What did he say before? He sounded so . . .
scornful.
”

“Try
afraid
,” Finley said. “When I told him I was concerned about that man, he said, ‘
Man
?' ”

Boutelle shivered at more than the gathering mountain chill. It was beginning to get dark as well. For some reason, he recalled the ghastly screeching noise he'd heard the night before.

He shook away the memory, irritated with himself for being credulous.

“Well, I think he
is
a man,” he said, trying to sound as confident as possible.

“Do you?” was all Finley said.

They were moving now into an open glade, deeply shaded by a thick overhead growth of pines. As they entered it, Boutelle saw, in the center of the glade, stacked preparations for a bonfire. He could use a little fire warmth, he thought.

Finley looked at the fire preparations with a sense of foreboding. He knew what it was. Not a camp fire for heat and cooking. It was too big for that.