Shadow on the Sun Read Free

miseries.
    â€œDamn!” He let the curse go knifing into the wind-scaled rain and, for the effort, got his teeth wet. Damn it! He set his lips into a thin, trembling line. And why, he thought,
why
? For a pack of lice-infested, mule-eating Apaches! Damn them! The sullen, staring, brooding, leather-faced savages!
    Captain Leicester dug his spurs in. “Come on!” he raged. “Come on, damn you!”
    Â 
    When David Boutelle, wet and uncomfortable, tried to guide his horse toward the White River Hotel, a swarm of animated townsmen swept him instead toward the Sidewinder Saloon. There, along with a laughing Finley, he was virtually lifted from his saddle by the cheering men and borne aloft toward the smoke-blue, shouting din of the barroom.
    As the two of them were carried through the batwing doors, a cheer went up from the assemblage. Steins and glasses were banged on tables and bar, two-fingered whistles needled at the air.
    Then Boutelle and Finley were lowered jarringly to the floor and guided by their shoulders to the counter where glasses waited and Appleface Kelly, dripping rain, slammed his hamlike palm on the dark counter and bellowed for whiskey. The barroom sounded deafeningly with boot-scuffling, ragged-cheering men as they pushed happily to the counter.
    When every glass and stein was filled, Appleface slammed his palm on the counter again, and, at the pistol shot report of it and Appleface’s shout to “Hold it! Hold it!” everyone fell silent. Boutelle tried to get away, but he was held in a trap of smiling, eager men.
    â€œBoys!” said Appleface. “This here’s a gala day! Our wives and kids can finally walk the streets of Picture City without bein’ scared of every shadow! We can work our jobs without expectin’ arrows in our backs from some damn, murderin’ Apache! And for that we got t’thank one man here.”
    Appleface beamed and pointed at the Indian agent.
    â€œ
Billjohn Finley
!” he declared.
    â€œHooray for Billjohn!” shouted someone.
    â€œRight!” said Appleface. “Hip, hip—”
    â€œHooray!” howled the men.
    â€œHip, hip—”
    â€œHoo-
ray
!”
    â€œHip, hip—”
    â€œHoo-RAYYY!” Boutelle winced at the ear-piercing noise.
    Then there was only the sound of mass, convulsive swallowing, followed in seconds by the sounds of fiery coughs, stamping boots, and thick glasses being set down heavily on the counter.
    Eddie Harkness and his uncle skimmed along behind the bar, uptilted bottles in their hands, gurgling amber bourbon into the glasses. Boutelle put down his glass, still three-quarters full, grimacing at the hot bite of the whiskey in his throat. He looked around for a way out. He’d made his gesture, now he wanted to go.
    â€œAnd here’s to Mr. David Boutelle from Washington, D.C.!” yelled Appleface. “Hip, hip—”
    â€œHoo-
RAY
!”
    Boutelle smiled thinly and tried to leave, but glasses were being raised en masse again and he was pressed in by the shoulder-to-shoulder drinkers. He took another sip of his drink and clenched his teeth.
    Finley noticed the younger man standing in his wet clothes, and when the cheers had abated and the men had gone back to theirseparate groups of drinking and gaming, he worked his way over to Boutelle.
    â€œYou’d better go get yourself a change of clothes,” he said.
    Boutelle smiled politely. “I intend to,” he said. He looked at Finley’s rain-darkened coat. “What about you?”
    â€œOh, I’m used to it,” Finley said pleasantly. “I’ve slept out many a night in wetter clothes than these.”
    â€œYou don’t talk like a native of these parts,” said Boutelle, finally getting enough room to take off his hat and shake the raindrops to the floor.
    â€œI’m not,” said Finley. “I’m from New Jersey, but I’ve lived here over seven