Finley almost glanced aside despite his resolution not to do it. He clenched his teeth and looked ahead determinedly. “Just walk,” he said.
He could feel the rigid tension in Dodge’s arm as they moved down the street, their boots thumping on the plank walk. Finley couldn’t help himself from glancing at the window of Chasen’s Dry Goods. He saw the man reflected, still across the street, watching them. What did that mean? he wondered. That he’d changed his mind about seeing Dodge? That he wouldn’t accost Dodge unless the professor was alone? He couldn’t help wondering what the man thought of him for leading Dodge along the street.
He had his answer when they reached the office. As he opened the door and ushered Dodge inside, he could not prevent himself from looking toward the man.
He shivered as he saw that the man had moved along the opposite side of the street. Already, he was standing almost directly across from the office.
The look he directed at Finley chilled the agent’s blood.
It was a look of murderous hostility.
Swallowing with effort, Finley went inside and shut the door with a cowed sense that there was probably no door that could shut away the man if the man chose to enter.
As he turned toward the office, he was startled to see Boutelle across the floor from him, standing with Barney Gans, who ran a small horse ranch somewhere in the vicinity of Pinal Spring.
From the look of him, Barney had been riding hard, his long coat splattered with mud, streaks and specks of it across his face and hat, on his hands.
“What’s going on?” Finley asked.
Boutelle glanced questioningly at Dodge.
“This is Professor Dodge,” Finley told him. “I’m taking him to Fort Apache.”
“Good.” Boutelle’s voice was grim. “I’ll go with you.”
Now what? Finley thought.
“Tell Mr. Finley,” Boutelle said to Gans.
“It’s the Injuns, Mr. Finley,” Barney said. “Braided Feather’s band. They left their camp and took off for the mountains.”
Oh, Christ, Finley thought. He wasn’t prepared for this. “You’re sure?” was all he could think to say.
“Yes, sir. I was bringin’ in some strays and saw them movin’ off.”
“Are you satisfied now?” Boutelle demanded. “Is this enough? Can we tell Colonel Bishop that—”
“Listen—” Finley interrupted, then broke off instantly and turned to Dodge. “Can you tell us something to explain this?” he asked. “Mr. Boutelle is convinced that Braided Feather’s band is behind all this. I think you know differently. Now will you please tell Mr. Boutelle what’s actually going on?”
Dodge gulped. “I can’t,” he murmured. “I have to leave.”
“Professor, we have got to know,” Finley said irritably. “Mr. Boutelle—”
“Mr. Boutelle is convinced that this is one more dereliction on the part of the Apaches,” Boutelle broke in. “One more indication of their utter contempt for the agreement they signed only yesterday!”
Finley grabbed Dodge’s arm. “Damn it,” he said. “Tell us who that man is and why he wants to talk to you, and to the Night Doctor.”
Dodge began to shake, tears rising in his eyes again. “I can’t,” he said. Boutelle looked at him, wondering how Dodge fitted into any of this. He was convinced it was the Apaches. Still . . .
“Barney, thank you for riding in and telling us this,” Finley said to Gans. “I’m going to find Braided Feather and his people and ask them what this is all about.”
“You don’t think—” Barney began.
“You’re going to talk to the Apaches?” Boutelle said incredulously. “You’re still not going to call in the troops to—”
“Barney, I’ll be in touch with you later.” Finley said, cutting off Boutelle. “Thank you again.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Finley,” Barney said.
When he’d gone, Finley turned back to Boutelle. The young man’s face was set into a grim expression. I cannot believe how much has gone wrong in the past twenty-four hours, Finley thought. He glanced at the wall clock. Jesus. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours yet.
Bracing himself, he spoke to Boutelle.
“You don’t know everything that’s going on here,” he said. He threw a resentful glance at Dodge. “And it doesn’t look as if you’re going to right away—any more than I am.”
He gestured brusquely toward the bench by the door. “Wait there,” he told Dodge. Despite the small man’s continuing dread, Finley was losing patience with him. Dodge might conceivably solve this problem with a simple explanation. He couldn’t imagine what that explanation might be, but if it was there, Dodge damn well owed it to them.
“I know what you believe, Mr. Boutelle,” he said. “I know it makes sense to you. But I’m convinced there’s more involved here than a broken treaty.”
“A broken treaty?” Boutelle said coldly. “Have you already forgotten about those two butchered men?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten about them,” Finley said, noticing the frightened look Dodge was giving Boutelle. He almost told Boutelle about Al Corcoran, then decided against it; there simply wasn’t time.
“I’m going after Braided Feather,” he continued. “I have to hear his side of the story before I can decide what to do. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it’s got to be for now.”
Boutelle stared at him in silence. Finley heard the wall clock ticking and saw, from the left side of his vision, the brass pendulum arcing back and forth.
“I see,” Boutelle finally replied.
Finley turned away and moved to the cupboard to get his saddlebags and supplies.
“I’ll go rent a horse,” Boutelle said.
Finley turned in surprise. Boutelle was heading for the door.
“You’re going with me?” Finley asked.
Boutelle stopped and looked around.
“Is there any reason that I can’t?” he challenged.
Finley thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said. “Glad to have your company.”
“That I doubt,” Boutelle murmured, moving to the door again and opening it. “I’ll meet you at the livery stable,” he said.
Finley watched Boutelle close the door. He was impressed. It would never have occurred to him that Boutelle would volunteer for such a trip.
He grunted with dark amusement as he turned back to the cupboard. Glad to have his company? he thought. Boutelle was right. He doubted it, too. At least he’d know where Boutelle was, though. That would prevent the younger man from riding to Fort Apache on his own and reporting Braided Feather’s flight to Colonel Bishop.
A look of concern tightened his face again. Why did Braided Feather take his entire band away from their camp? He’d never known the chief to evidence a moment’s cowardice in the past. Now he was taking flight with all his people.
Something was driving them away. Something which obviously terrified them.
He looked at Dodge.
The little man was standing by the window, pressed against the wall, peering around its edge.
“Is he still there?” Finley asked.
His voice made the little man twitch and look toward Finley with a gasp.
“Is he?” Finley said.
Dodge drew in a shaking breath. “Yes,” he said, his voice thin. “You are going to take me to Fort Apache, aren’t you?”
“No,” Finley answered.
Dodge looked at him in shock. “You’re not?” he said.
“Why should I take you anywhere?” Finley demanded. “You’re not willing to help me. Why should I help you?”
“Please,” Dodge said. “I can’t tell you.”
“Then go by yourself,” Finley snapped.
“Damn you, don’t you have the slightest idea of what we’re all involved in here!” Dodge cried, startling Finley. “If you knew what that man really is!”
“What is he?” Finley demanded.
“Something you don’t want to know a
bout,” Dodge told him. “If you had the brains you were born with, you’d leave the territory with me and never come back!”
Finley looked intently at the little man. Clearly, Dodge was overwhelmed by dread.
He sighed. No use, he thought. He wasn’t going to get anything helpful from the professor. He may as well forego the hope.
“You can go with me,” he told the professor. “But I can’t take you to Fort Apache.”
“But you have to,” Dodge said in a panicked voice.
“It’s in the opposite direction from the way I have to go,” Finley told him. “I’m sorry. You know what I have to do.”
“You can’t just leave me,” Dodge said pleadingly.
“I’m sorry,” Finley said, gathering supplies together. “I’ll stay with you as far as I can. Then I’ve got to head into the mountains.” He looked over at Dodge. “Maybe you want to come with me, see Braided Feather yourself.”
Dodge said no more. He stood by the window in silence, peering out at the man.
The next time Finley looked at him, the little man was slumped on the bench, bending over, holding his head in his hands. Finley had never seen a more defeated-looking man. He felt sorry for Dodge again.
But there was nothing more he could do about it.
10
As they rode down Main Street, headed for the south end of town, they had to ride past the hotel. Across from it, sitting in the chair again, was the man. Seeing him there, it occurred to Finley that ordinarily if short-tempered Elbert Zweig, who owned the grain shop, saw anyone sitting in his chair, he’d charge out and roust him. That there was not a sign of Zweig made it obvious that he had no intention of confronting the man.
He glanced at Dodge. The professor was staring straight ahead, face set into a rigid mask.
Finley glanced at the man in the chair, shuddering as he saw that look again directed at him.
He felt a tightening of reactive anger. Damn the man anyway, he thought. If the Marshal had been around, Finley could have told him that the man had stolen one of the Corcorans’ horses; that would be enough to get him thrown in jail.
But could the jail even contain the man, Finley wondered, remembering that glade and the sight of Al Corcoran torn apart like the prey of some wild animal. The last time he’d seen a living thing so mangled was when he’d stumbled onto a hawk devouring a rabbit it had just caught. His startling of the bird had made it rush up suddenly into the air, scattering the bloody fragments of flesh in all directions.
“You really think that man is involved with what’s happening?” Boutelle’s voice made him start.
Finley glanced at the man in the chair to see if he’d overheard. If he had, he gave no indication of it.
“Ask the professor,” he answered.
Boutelle looked at Dodge. “Professor?” he asked. If the small man knew something about this situation, Boutelle could not fathom why he was so reluctant to reveal it.
“Not yet,” was all Dodge said, his lips barely moving as though he didn’t want the man in the chair to think he was speaking.
Ten minutes later, they were out of Picture City.
After they were gone from sight, the man stood slowly and moved to Al Corcoran’s horse. He swung his giant frame onto the saddle and reined the horse’s head around.
He would not lose track of the professor this time.
They saw the grayish-white smoke before they were close enough to see what was burning.
“What could that be?” Boutelle asked.
“Unless I’m wrong, it’s Little Owl’s wickiup,” Finley told him.
In several minutes, they could see the burning structure. Because of the heavy rain the day and night before, its hide walls were still damp, smoldering slowly instead of burning quickly as they would have in drier weather.
Little Owl’s widow and children had just finished loading a travois with their few belongings. They looked around apprehensively as they heard the approaching hoofbeats. Seeing Finley, Little Owl’s wife said something to her children and they became less restive.
Boutelle looked at them with impolite curiosity as they rode closer to the burning wickiup. He had not seen Indian women and children before. His only exposure to the Apaches had been the meeting yesterday and the few minutes in town this morning, and that had only been with Braided Feather, his rancorous son, and whatever braves had come along with them.
Frankly, he was appalled by the sight of Little Owl’s widow and children. They looked dirty and diseased to him, their clothes in wretched condition. Did they ever wash? he thought. But even as he thought it, he sensed the injustice of that observation. To live like this was scarcely conducive to cleanliness. Not that they care, I’m sure, he thought.
In light of all that, however, why in the name of God were they burning the one shelter they had, meager and mean though it was?
He asked, and Finley told him that it was because of Little Owl, that it was an Indian practice to burn their dwelling places after a death.
“With his body inside?” he asked, repelled.
“It’s their way,” Finley answered.
Boutelle was silent for a few moments before asking, “Can you find out if she knows anything about the Apaches leaving their camp?”
“She wouldn’t know anything about that,” Finley replied.
“Ask her about her husband then,” Boutelle said. “Maybe he knew—”
“Impossible,” Finley interrupted. “From the moment she knew her husband was dead, his name never passed her lips, and in no way whatever will she ever refer to him for the rest of her life.”
“Really,” Boutelle said, not impressed by the information, merely reacting to it.
They stopped by the smoking, slowly burning wickiup, and Finley, dismounting, spoke to Little Owl’s wife. Boutelle could not help but notice the kindness in his voice when he spoke to her. What did the man see in these people anyway? he thought. Their hideous depredations on the settlers of this territory and beyond would certainly seem to disqualify them from the status of acceptable human beings.
He looked over at Dodge. The professor was clearly unhappy about them stopping at all. He kept looking back toward Picture City, his expression deeply anxious. Did he think that man was going to follow them?
Boutelle tried not to allow himself to be misled by what appeared to be complications in what was going on. The facts were clear enough. The Apaches had signed the treaty in bad faith, promptly massacred those two young men, and now were fleeing from the obvious consequences.
The rest was extraneous. That man—as grotesque as he was to look at—could not conceivably be behind all this. Very well, Professor Dodge was terrified of him. Dodge seemed to be an educated man, but that did not prevent him from being credulous as well. Perhaps he’d done something to offend the man and feared reprisal.
As far as the so-called “Night Doctor” . . . Boutelle made a scoffing noise. He had no intention of succumbing to anything which remotely smacked of mysticism. God knew the man with the scar looked powerful enough to commit any conceivable variety of mayhem without being a mystical being. That the Apaches feared him was not all that peculiar. They were a naive, superstitious lot at best and . . .
His train of thought broke off as Dodge said loudly, “Can’t we go?”
Finley looked up at him without expression, then turned back to Little Owl’s widow and said a few more things to her. Boutelle saw him pat her gently on the back and smile. Then he returned to his horse and mounted. Without a word, he pulled the mare around and nudged his heels against its flanks, causing it to trot away. Boutelle did the same, then Dodge. The three men rode off from what had been Little Owl’s home and now was only a smoking framework of poles and burning hides.
“What did you say to her?” Boutelle asked, riding up beside Finley.
“I wished her luck,” Finley muttered.
“You didn’t suggest she take her family to the San Carlos Reservation?”
>
“I wouldn’t send a dog there,” Finley responded.
The bitterness in his voice shut Boutelle up. Obviously Finley was in no frame of mind to be rational, he thought. Let it go. Soon enough, the agent would have to accept the facts and have a troop of cavalry sent in pursuit of the fleeing Apaches.
Dodge followed them, relieved when Finley heeled his mare into a slow gallop. The further away from the man he got and the faster, the better he’d feel.
Finley pulled up his horse and twisted around to look at Dodge.
“This is as far as I can take you,” he said. “The fort is that way.”
Dodge stared at him blankly. “You’re really not going to—”
“You can still come with us,” Finley cut him off. “Talk to Braided Feather. Tell him—”
“No,” Dodge interrupted.
Finley’s lips tightened. “Suit yourself,” he said. Boutelle saw him struggling with his anger and controlling it. Then Finley spoke again.
“Listen to me, Professor,” he said. “This is your last chance to prevent what could well be a catastrophe. You know a lot more than you’ve told us. Please . . .please don’t hold back anymore. Who is that man? Why are the Apaches running from him? Why are you running from him? What does the Night Doctor have to do with it? For God’s sake, what’s that damn scar around his neck?”
It seemed as though Dodge was about to speak. His lips stirred soundlessly, his expression tautly anxious.
Abruptly, then, he looked behind them, hissed as though he saw something, and kicked his boot heels at the horse’s flanks, galloping off toward the fort.
“I hope he makes it,” Finley said after a few moments.
Boutelle didn’t know how to respond. Despite his resolve, his mind kept getting cluttered with these complications, all of them leading to one unanswerable question.
What did the tall stranger have to do with what was going on?
He watched Dodge galloping away at high speed.
As though pursued by the demons of Hell.
The campground was built beside a running stream within a grove of trees, a thick windbreak of pine, spruce, and piñon.