Shadow on the Sun Read Free Page B

plan their battles so carefully. That’s why a chief like Vittorio has lasted so long. He figures things out to the last detail.”
    â€œYou sound as though you admire him,” said Boutelle. He was terribly uncomfortable in these sodden clothes and in the hot airlessness of the saloon, but it was his duty to learn as much as he could about the sort of man who was, after all, representing the United States of America.
    â€œYou have to admire a good general,” Finley was answering easily, “even if he is your enemy. Didn’t we admire General Lee?”
    â€œGeneral Lee did not foment his war.”
    â€œNeither did Vittorio, Mr. Boutelle,” the Indian agent said quietly.
    The younger man cleared his throat.
    â€œI fear we differ on several essential points,” he said.
    Finley shrugged and grinned cheerfully. “That’s what makes life interesting,” he said.
    Boutelle nodded curtly. “Yes. Well, I really must be getting back to the hotel. These clothes . . .”
    â€œYes, yes, by all means,” said Finley in honest concern. “Get yourself into a hot tub. Down some whiskey. Drive the wet right out of you.”
    Boutelle managed a politic smile. He knew that Finley was elated at having brought these savages to bay after more than seven years of trying. He had a right to, of course. Even if he did conceive of them as noble primitives instead of the murderous brutes they were.
    â€œYou wish to see my report before I send it off to the Capitol?” he asked.
    â€œNo, no, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Finley said amiably.
    â€œVery well.” Boutelle nodded once and turned away.
    Finley watched the younger man pick his way across the crowded saloon floor. Twenty-five years old, he thought, maybe twenty-six. Graduate of Yale most likely, maybe Harvard. Father in the law profession or in some legislature or both. Maybe even in Congress. Mother a society grande dame in New York City, Boston, some such place. His future a well-secured plan: politics, a proper wife and children, respectability, the quiet dignity which true wealth makes easier. The descent, more than likely, into stodgy complacence, into . . .
    And, then again, maybe not, thought Finley with a self-deprecating shrug. It was unjust of him to write the young man off so easily. Was he, at thirty-seven, already taking on the dogmatism of old age? No sense in planning the poor boy’s future all at once. There were always shadows in a man’s personality that hid surprises. Besides, he was too happy today to feel critical of anyone. Appleface Kelly was right. It was, by God, a gala day!
    Finley grinned at Kelly as the bulky man sidled up to him.
    â€œSay that Boutelle is a stiff-neck, ain’t he?” said Kelly.
    â€œOh, he’s all right,” said Finley. “What’s your pleasure, you great hulk?”
    Kelly ordered whiskey and put it away with immaculate speed. Flushed from drink, his face was almost to the color of his name.
    Â 
    Al Corcoran came in at four.
    Just before he did, Finley had slipped back to his hotel room for a change of clothes. Now he was back at the saloon, chatting with Kelly.
    â€œSomethin’ I always wondered,” said Appleface. “Who in Sam Hill named you Billjohn?”
    â€œSimple,” Finley answered. “My father wanted to call me Bill and my mother wanted to call me John.”
    â€œSo they struck them a bargain!” said Appleface.
    â€œRight!”
    The two of them were laughing when the double doors were pushed open and the tall, heavyset man came in, dark slicker dripping. Stopping at the foot of the counter, he looked around the crowded room, his eyes coldly venomous beneath the shadowing brim of his Stetson.
    When his gaze reached Finley, he came walking over.
    â€œHello, Al,” Finley greeted him. “How’d it—”
    â€œYou seen my brothers?” Corcoran