The Valley of the Wendigo

by J. R. Roberts

“My question still stands then,” Clint repeated. “Are you going after it?”

  “Well . . . it’s my job,” Dekker said, “but I don’t want to get shot by accident by some Indian who can’t see.”

  “Who says he can’t see?”

  “I tol’ you,” Dekker said, “he’s old, he’s ancient.”

  “I think you’re wrong to judge him by his appearance,” Clint said. “Why don’t you give him a chance?”

  “Because he’ll probably get himself killed, and some other people as well. This town needs a real hunter.”

  “I told you,” Clint said, “I’m not a hunter.”

  “I am.”

  They both looked up to see who had spoken. The woman was wearing dusty trail clothes and looked like she’d just ridden in. She had long blond hair that was a rat’s nest of dirt and twigs at the moment, and she didn’t smell too sweet. Clint tried to look beneath the dirt on her face for her age, came up with thirty-five or so.

  “Sorry,” she said, “couldn’t help overhearin’ ya. I jus’ got into town, came in here for a drink, heard what you were talkin’ about. The Wendigo, right?”

  “That’s right,” Dekker said. “Miss—”

  “Don’t call me Miss,” she said. “I’m just Dakota.”

  “Dakota what?” Clint asked.

  She looked at him and said, “Just Dakota. Do I understand that you refuse to hunt for the Wendigo?”

  “It’s not my job,” Clint said, “and I don’t intend to make a hobby of it. So the answer is yes, I’m not going to go hunting for a mythical creature who eats human flesh.”

  She dismissed Clint and looked at the sheriff.

  “I’ll hunt it for ya.”

  “What makes you think you can do that?” Dekker asked.

  “I’ve hunted everything that can walk or crawl,” she said. “I’ve killed snakes, big cats, and bears. I ain’t afraid of anything.”

  “Have you had your drink yet?” Clint asked.

  “It’s over there on the bar,” she said, indicating a hardly touched mug of beer.

  “Well, go and get it, Dakota, and come join us,” Clint said. “I want to hear all about you.”

  “Sure thing,” she said.

  As she went to the bar for her beer, the sheriff asked, “What are you doin’?”

  “This woman is a hunter,” Clint said.

  “How can you tell?” Dekker asked. “How can you even tell she’s a woman beneath all that dirt?”

  “Look, you’re complaining about how old Fiddler is,” Clint said. “This woman has to be about half his age. Check her out if you want. Ask her for references, send a couple of telegrams, see what you find out.” Clint looked up and watched her walk back. “I think she’s for real.”

  “I don’t know,” Dekker said.

  “Come on, Sheriff,” Clint said. “She even smells like a bear, doesn’t she?”

  FOUR

  Dakota pulled a chair over, slapped her beer down on the table, set her rifle down, and sat. She was wearing a gun belt across her chest, fully loaded with shells that Clint was sure would fit either the rifle or the gun she wore on her waist. She wore it high up, clearly not in position for a fast draw, but then a hunter wouldn’t need that. She wore her gun simply as a pistoleer, not as a gunfighter.

  “How many has this thing killed?” she asked.

  “Five,” the sheriff said. “The last one was yesterday.”

  “Was anybody with the victims? Anybody who might have seen it?”

  Dekker looked at Clint, and Clint got the idea that Jack Fiddler had asked the same questions.

  “The first four victims were alone,” Dekker said. “Yesterday’s was with someone, yeah.”

  “I’ll have to see the dead man and talk to the live one,” she said.

  “That can be arranged.”

  “How much is the bounty, by the way?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s how much it was before yesterday,” Dekker said. “I don’t set it, and I don’t know if it’s gonna change.”

  She drank some beer, wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Upon closer inspection Clint thought she’d be an attractive woman if she were cleaned up. She was tall and solidly built, and her hair, once clean, would probably be the color of wheat.

  “And how much are you payin’ Jack Fiddler?”

  “You know about Fiddler?”

  “Anybody who’s ever hunted a critter knows about Fiddler,” she said. “He ain’t hunted nothing but Wendigos for a while, but he’s hunted every creature there ever was.”

  “Recently?” Dekker asked.

  “Hell, yeah, recently. He ain’t stopped huntin’.”

  “You got any idea how old he is?”

  “Damned if I know. Sixty? Eighty? All I know is the man’s a damned good hunter.”

  “Better than you?”

  “Better than anybody.”

  “So why should we hire you, then?”

  “Well, first off ya ain’t hirin’ me, I’m goin’ after the bounty,” she said. “Second, if ya do wanna hire me that’s another story. Third, ya must not be happy with Jack because you was tryin’ ta hire this jasper. So why not me?”

  “Do you know who this jasper is?” Dekker asked.

  She was drinking from her mug when he asked, so she wiped her mouth again and said, “I musta missed that part of yer conversation.”

  “This is Clint Adams.”

  “Am I supposed ta know who that—wait a minute.”

  Dekker did wait a minute, while Clint just sat back and watched the two of them, amused by the byplay.

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right,” Dekker said, “the Gunsmith.”

  “Hell,” she said, “his rep ain’t got nothin’ ta do with huntin’.” She turned to Clint. “No offense meant to ya.”

  “None taken,” he said. “I was just telling the sheriff the same thing.”

  “He can shoot,” Dekker said, “better than anybody livin’. That’s all I care about.”

  “He can’t shoot better than me,” she said. “I bet he can’t shoot better than Fiddler. Faster maybe, but not better.”

  “She might be right,” Clint said.

  Dekker gave him a look that said: “You’re not helping.”

  “Anybody want another beer?” Clint asked.

  Fiddler picked out the supplies he needed. As Styles made a list, he frowned at each item. He wondered how long it would take him to get his money from the town.

  “Is that all?”

  “I’ll need some ammunition—”

  “There’s a gun shop in town,” Styles was quick to point out. “It might be able to help you better.”

  Fiddler stared at the man, then nodded and said, “You may be right. That’s all, then.”

  “When will you need it by?”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll have it ready,” Styles said. “What time?”

  “I would like to get started at first light,” Fiddler said. “I could pick up the supplies tonight—”

  “No need,” Styles assured him. “I’ll be here and I’ll have everything ready.”

  “I am in your debt,” Fiddler said.

  No, you’re not, Styles thought as the Cree left his store, but the town is.

  FIVE

  “So if you’re after the bounty, why talk to me?” Sheriff Dekker was asking when Clint returned with beers for all of them. This time he paid the bartender, which made the man smile.

  Dakota shrugged and said, “I thought maybe I could get more if I was hired private.”

  “Well, if what you’re tellin’ me about Fiddler is true,” Dekker said, “then maybe we have hired the right man.”

  “So then you ain’t gonna keep tryin’ ta hire this Gunsmith fella?” she asked.

  “Clint,” he said.

  “Huh?” She looked at him.

  “You can call me Clint, Dakota.”
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br />   She turned her head back to Dekker.

  “You ain’t gonna keep tryin’ ta hire Clint, neither?” she asked.

  “I can’t hire anybody,” he said. “I’m just the sheriff.”

  “Who should I be talkin’ ta, then?” she asked.

  “The mayor, I guess,” Dekker said. He stood up, grabbed his mug, and drank half of it. “I gotta make my rounds. Clint, think it over.”

  “I’ll think it over, too,” Dakota said.

  “There’s nothin’ for you to think—oh, forget it.”

  Dekker stalked out.

  “You got under his skin,” Clint said.

  “That what you were lookin’ all funny about?” she asked.

  “Amused,” Clint said. “I was lookin’ amused.”

  “A-mused,” she repeated, saying it like she’d never said it before. “That mean funny?”

  “That means I found what you were doing to the sheriff funny, yes.”

  “Talk ta the mayor.” Dakota shook her head. “I think he was funnin’ me. Why would the mayor of a town talk to me?”

  “Maybe because he wants this thing killed,” Clint said.

  “He’s already got Fiddler, he ain’t about ta pay me, too.”

  “He might, if you approach him right.”

  “You sayin’ you know how ta approach him right?”

  “I might be saying that.”

  She leaned her elbows on the table.

  “When will ya know if that’s what yer sayin’?”

  “Maybe,” he replied, “after you take a bath.”

  Fiddler entered the livery stable.

  “I need a packhorse.”

  Ed Stack looked Fiddler up and down.

  “You that Indian feller they hired ta kill that Windy-go?”

  “Wendigo,” Fiddler said. “Yes.”

  “Hellfire, man, yer as old as me.”

  Fiddler smiled for the first time since he rode into town.

  “Probably older,” he said.

  “Kin you even sit a horse?”

  “For hours,” Fiddler said.

  Stack looked him up and down again.

  “Yeah, maybe ya can at that,” Stack said. “Well, come on, I got orders ta give you what you want. Town’s supposed ta pay me back but it prolly ain’t never gonna happen.”

  Fiddler didn’t feel bad about that. Whenever he was hired by someone—a person, a group, or a town—the details of how he got outfitted and paid were up to them. He didn’t fret about that sort of thing, especially when it came to town politics.

  He followed the liveryman out the back door to the corral.

  “Why the hell would I wanna take a bath?” Dakota asked.

  “So I could see the woman underneath all the dirt.” Dakota touched her hair before she caught herself and lowered her hand.

  “Well, of course, I was gonna take a bath,” she said. “First I wanted ta get a drink to cut the dust, then a room, and then a bath.” She hesitated, then added, “I know I’m dirty, Mr. Gunsmith.”

  “Clint,” he said, “just Clint.”

  “Yeah, okay, Clint,” she said. “So yer sayin’ you’ll help me with the mayor after I take a bath?”

  “I don’t know the mayor,” Clint said, “but if they’re looking to hire me, I can probably get in to see him. I can put a good word in for you.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I don’t want to hunt for this thing,” he said.

  “You scared?”

  “I’ve hunted animals before,” he said. “When they kill, they usually kill to survive—or because they’re cornered.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “I don’t know the whole story with this thing,” he said. “And I didn’t come here looking for a job hunting a crazed animal. You did, and you look like you’ve done it before.”

  “I have.”

  “What about Fiddler?” ”

  “What about him?”

  “How’s he going to feel about you trying to take his job?” he asked.

  “Fiddler knows it’s open season on . . . on whatever’s out there. He’ll understand.”

  “Do you think it’s a Wendigo?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Have you ever seen a Wendigo?”

  “I haven’t,” she said. “But Fiddler’s seen ’em, and killed ’em.”

  “So you believe in these creatures?”

  “I believe there’s somethin’ out there that deserves killin’,” she said, “and it has a price on its head. That’s all I gotta know.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Okay.”

  She stared at him, playing with her half-full beer mug.

  “Which of these hotels has got baths?” she asked.

  “I’m in the Northwood Hotel,” he said. “I believe they have facilities.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “okay.” She finished her beer, slammed the empty mug down on the chair. “Gotta take care of my horse first.”

  “I’m not in a hurry,” he said. “I don’t think anybody’s going out after this thing until tomorrow.”

  “We’ll,” she said, “I’ll see ya after I take care of my animal, get a room, and, uh, take a bath.”

  “I’ll be right here,” he assured her.

  He watched her walk out, and realized that from behind—wearing a man’s shirt and trousers—she cut an impressive figure. He was very interested to see what the bath was going to reveal underneath all that grime.

  SIX

  Fiddler picked out his packhorse. To the surprise of the liveryman—who told Fiddler just to call him ’ol Jed— the Cree did not pick out one of the better, more expensive horses. He took a ten-year-old nag that stack was thinking about gettin’ rid of.

  “Why that one?” Stack asked Fiddler. “It’ll likely get ya where yer goin’, but it won’t get ya back.”

  “I am hunting a Wendigo,” Fiddler said. “I do not expect this horse to survive.”

  “Ya mean ya expect it to get eaten?”

  “I hope it does.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Stack said. “Yer usin’ it as a pack animal, but yer also usin’ it fer bait.”

  “I will pick it up in the morning,” Fiddler said.

  “Sure thing,” Stack said. “I’m here at first light, anyway.”

  Fiddler nodded and left the livery. His next stop— what was to be his first, but was now his last—was the sheriff’s office.

  Dakota was on her way to the livery, walking her horse, when she saw Fiddler coming toward her.

  They stopped in the middle of the street to talk.

  “Hey, Fiddler.”

  The old Cree did not look surprised to see her.

  “Dakota,” he said, nodding.

  “Not surprised?”

  “No,” he said. “I would have been surprised if you had not come.”

  “Where ya off to?”

  “The sheriff’s office,” Fiddler said, “although I do not think the man means to be very cooperative.”

  “I don’t think so either,” she said. “He was just in the saloon tryin’ to talk Clint Adams into goin’ huntin’.”

  “Clint Adams?” Fiddler said. “He does not hunt.”

  “For the right amount of money, anybody hunts, Fiddler,” she said, “but so far Adams ain’t bitin’.”

  “Are you goin’ out alone?” Fiddler asked her.

  “Unless you wanna take me with you.”

  “I hunt alone,” he said. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “Then I guess I’ll be goin’ out alone.”

  “You should not hunt the Wendigo, Dakota,” Fiddler said. “You are not experienced.”

  “I’m an experienced hunter, Jack,” she said. “You know that.”

  “But you have not hunted the Wendigo.”

  “Can it be killed?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I can hunt it, and I can kill it. I need the money, Jack,” she said.


  “I understand.”

  “I gotta take care of my horse and get me a room,” she said. “You camped out?”

  “North of town.”

  “I’ll come have some coffee with you.”

  “I would like that.”

  The two friendly competitors continued on their way.

  Fiddler entered the sheriff’s office, found the man sitting behind his desk.

  “There ya are,” Dekker said. “Thought ya forgot about me.”

  “I stopped in earlier, but you were not here.”

  “Musta been makin’ my rounds. You get the supplies you needed from Styles?”

  “Yes, and a packhorse from the livery. Now I need to pick up some ammunition from the gun shop, and perhaps another weapon,” Fiddler explained.

  “What can I do for ya, then?”

  Fiddler gave it some thought.

  “I think all I require of you is to stop Dakota from trying to hunt the Wendigo.”

  “Now how can I do that?” Dekker said. “That lady’s got as much right to try for the bounty as anyone.”

  “Remove the bounty,” Fiddler said. “Now that I am here, you do not need a bunch of amateur hunters out there, perhaps shooting each other.”

  “You’re probably right about that, but she don’t seem like no amateur.”

  “When it comes to this, she is.”

  “Far as this beast is concerned, you think you’re the only one who ain’t an amateur, ain’t that right?”

  “My ancestors hunted it, and I hunt it.”

  “I’ll talk to the mayor about takin’ off the bounty,” Dekker said. “You don’t need the amateurs out there shootin’ at you. That’s about all I can do, though.”

  “Very well,” Fiddler said. “I will accept whatever help you offer.”

  “You get settled in camp?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t happen to see that gal, did ya?”

  “I did. We talked.”

  “Is she any good?”

  “She is an excellent hunter.”

  “For a woman?”

  “For anyone.”

  “Why not take her out there to help you?”

  “I hunt alone.”

  “Yeah, you said that before.”

  “Thank you for your time, Sheriff.”

  “That’s my job,” Dekker said, “to give folks my time.”

  As the Cree turned to leave, Dekker spoke. “Hey, Fiddler?”

  “Yes?”