Shadow on the Sun by Richard Matheson Page A

irritation. “The Indian agent.”
    Silence again. Now what? Finley wondered. Was the man going to let him in or not?
    â€œWhat do you want?” Dodge asked. There was no mistaking it now; what he heard was the voice of a frightened man.
    â€œI’d like to talk with you,” Finley said, trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice.
    â€œWhat about?” Dodge demanded.
    For Christ’s sake, Finley thought. What the hell is wrong with the man?
    Then he thought of everything that had happened since yesterday. If Dodge was part of it, it was not surprising that he’d sound disturbed.
    â€œI want to talk to you about that man,” Finley said, somehow knowing that Dodge would know exactly what he meant.
    Silence. What was Dodge doing? he wondered. And was he actually going to open the door?
    â€œAre you alone?” Dodge’s thin voice drifted through the door.
    â€œYes,” Finley answered.
    Another few seconds passed. Then Finley heard the door being unlocked. It didn’t open. “Come in,” Dodge said.
    Finley opened the door and stopped short.
    Dodge was pointing a derringer at his chest.
    Finley’s hands flew up, palms spread. “For God’s sake,” he said.
    The professor lowered the derringer. “Come in, come in,” he said. As Finley did, Dodge shut the door quickly and relocked it. That lock wouldn’t do much good if that man chose to break the door open, Finley thought.
    Then he was looking at Dodge’s face, knowing in an instant that the professor was very much a part of the strange events which had taken place. The small man’s expression, while not as exaggerated by shock, very much reminded him of the look on Little Owl’s face. The look on Al Corcoran’s face.
    The look of a man confronted by total, overpowering terror.

9
    F inley glanced toward the bed. Dodge had thrown two suitcases across the mattress and begun to pack them—if flinging articles of clothing into them with clumsy haste could be defined as packing. More evidence, he thought. Not that he needed it now. Dodge’s appearance and manner made it more than apparent that he was getting ready to flee.
    â€œLeaving?” he asked.
    The professor’s Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively. “What do you want?” he asked.
    â€œI think you know what I want,” Finley told him.
    â€œI have no idea—”
    â€œI want to know who that man is,” Finley broke in. “I want to know why he wants to see you. Why he asked about the Night Doctor. I want to know why Braided Feather and his braves rode all the way in from Pinal Spring to see him. I want you to tell me what’s going on, Professor.”
    â€œI have no idea—” Dodge started again.
    â€œI think you do,” Finley interrupted angrily. “The man asked for you in the Sidewinder Saloon. Then he came here and asked for you. He—”
    â€œI don’t know who he is!” Dodge cried. He turned away abruptly. “Now if you’ll please go, I have packing to do.”
    â€œI don’t think you can run away from him,” Finley told him quietly. “Four men are dead already and—”
    He broke off at the look of stunned dismay on Dodge’s face. “What?” the professor murmured.
    â€œFour men have been killed,” Finley said. “One of them was frightened to death. The other three were torn apart by God knows what. Now, I know—”
    He broke off a second time as Dodge began to shake, making faint whimpering sounds in his throat as he stared at Finley.
    The agent felt a burst of pity for the little man. “For God’s sake, Professor,” he said.
“What is going on?”
    He couldn’t tell at first what Dodge was saying, his voice was so weak and trembling. Then he heard the words, repeated and repeated. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”
    â€œWhy?” Finley