The Valley of the Wendigo

by J. R. Roberts

“Fine.” She turned to Clint. “Where should I meet you after you talk to the sheriff?”

  “How about the hotel?”

  “Good. I’ll see you there in . . . an hour?” She looked at the old Cree hunter.

  “I will not need you for more than an hour,” Fiddler confirmed.

  “All right, then,” Clint said. “At the hotel in an hour. Good luck with your hunt, Fiddler.”

  Fiddler pointed a crooked index finger at Clint.

  “You are truly not here to hunt the Wendigo?”

  “Fiddler,” Clint said, “I am truly not here to hunt anyone or anything . . . especially not the Wendigo.”

  Fiddler studied Clint for a long moment, then lowered his finger and said, “We will see.”

  FIFTEEN

  Clint found Sheriff Dekker in his office. The man was surprised to see Clint so soon.

  “What brings you back here?”

  “Dakota and I checked on Jack Fiddler,” Clint said. “He spent an uneventful night.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “I have another matter to talk to you about, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dakota would like to talk to the mayor.”

  “What for?”

  “To make a case for herself being hired by the town to hunt the Wendigo.”

  “The town hired Fiddler,” Dekker said. “In fact, she’s better off going for the bounty. We’re upping it today to a thousand dollars.”

  “A thousand is just going to bring more amateurs to town,” Clint warned.

  “I know that,” Dekker said, spreading his hands. “It’s not my decision to make.”

  “Well, I promised Dakota I’d try to get her in to see the mayor,” Clint said. “I tried.”

  “Wait,” Dekker said as Clint headed for the door.

  “What?”

  “You’ve gotten pretty friendly with Dakota already, haven’t you?” Dekker asked.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Hey, no offense,” Dekker said, holding his hands out. “All I meant was, the mayor would agree to see her if it included you.”

  Clint turned to face the lawman.

  “Okay, yeah, I did say I’d go with her.”

  “Great,” Dekker said. “I’ll set it up. How about noon?”

  “That’s fine,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  As Clint started to leave, Dekker stood up to intensify his point.

  “He’ll agree to hire you,” he said. “Even though Fiddler’s already on the payroll.”

  “He won’t hire three people, though, will he?”

  “Maybe not,” Sheriff Dekker said, “but I bet he’d hire two partners.”

  “Partners.”

  “Think it over.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said unhappily, “I will.”

  He left the office, already knowing he’d gotten himself roped into something . . . again.

  Dakota was waiting for him in the lobby when he got to the hotel.

  “Did you talk to the mayor?” she asked.

  “I talked to the sheriff, who said the mayor will see us at noon,” he replied.

  “Us? So you’ll go with me?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  She looked like she was going to hug him, but drew back at the last minute. She’d lost some of her inhibitions in his room the night before, but they were still very much in evidence in the hotel lobby.

  “That’s great. What do we do until then?”

  “What you’d normally do before you go hunting,” Clint said. “What would that be?”

  “I’d clean my guns, make sure they’re workin’ the way they’re supposed to. I don’t wanna come face to face with a Wendigo only to have my gun misfire.”

  “Well, then, get to it,” he said.

  “What about you?”

  “I can keep myself busy.”

  She smiled and said, “We could keep each other busy.”

  “That wouldn’t get your guns clean, would it?”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and said, “I’ll meet you down here at two o’clock. We can have a drink before we go and see the mayor.”

  “One drink,” Clint cautioned. “You don’t want to be drunk when you’re pleading your case.”

  “Or our case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if we went in as . . . partners?”

  Just for a moment he wondered if she’d somehow been listening to his conversation with the sheriff.

  “You wouldn’t mind that?”

  “I think together we’d be the perfect hunter,” she said. “Maybe better than Fiddler. My hunting skills and your ability with guns. We’d be unbeatable.”

  “I didn’t know it was a contest.”

  “When there’s money involved, it’s always a contest.”

  “Why don’t we see how receptive the mayor is, first?”

  She smiled and said, “Deal.”

  SIXTEEN

  After leaving Dakota, Clint went back to Jack Fiddler’s camp, hoping to catch the old Cree before he left for his hunt. Luckily, the man was still loading his packhorse with supplies.

  Clint entered the camp, knowing that Fiddler was aware of him there.

  “You are back with somethin’ on your mind,” Fiddler said.

  “How do you know?”

  “You have returned without Dakota,” Fiddler said. “So this must be about her.”

  “It is.”

  Fiddler turned to face Clint.

  “Can you convince her not to hunt the Wendigo?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So then you will go with her.”

  “But I told you I would not hunt,” Clint pointed out.

  Fiddler waved that away.

  “I do not want her to be hurt,” he said. “With you along there is less chance of that.”

  “So you don’t mind?”

  “You came seekin’ my permission?” the Cree hunter asked.

  “Not permission as much as . . . dispensation.”

  “You have it,” Fiddler said.

  “Thank you.”

  “What else?”

  “Is there something else?”

  “Is there?”

  Clint hesitated.

  “You want to know about the Wendigo,” the Cree said.

  “Yes.”

  “You do not believe.”

  “It’s not that, but . . .”

  “I have seen them,” Fiddler said. “I have seen what they have done. And I have killed them.”

  “How?”

  “With magic.”

  “Not guns?”

  “Not your guns,” Fiddler said. “Not Dakota’s. To hunt the Wendigo with only guns is foolhardy.”

  “So everyone else who hunts them is . . . suicidal?”

  “As I said,” Fiddler corrected. “Foolhardy. Each does it for his or her own reason.”

  “I think most of them are going to be doing it for the thousand dollars.”

  “Thousand?”

  “It goes up today.”

  Fiddler just shook his head.

  “I must go,” he said. “The sooner I kill it, the more lives will be spared.”

  “Can’t you give me any advice, Fiddler?” Clint asked. “I’m not after the money.”

  “I know, my friend,” Fiddler said. “You are doin’ it for the woman.”

  “I’m doing it in the hopes of keeping the woman alive,” Clint said.

  “Then take the advice I give you, and take it to heart,” Fiddler said.

  “I will.”

  “Keep her away,” Fiddler said. “Do not let her hunt, for the Wendigo will surely kill her—and you.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That,” Jack Fiddler said, again showing Clint that crooked index finger, “is the best advice I can give you.”

  “Then I’ll try to take it to heart.”

  Fiddler nodded, then shook his head as if he were thinking. “I know you will, bu
t I also know you will not do what I say.”

  SEVENTEEN

  When Clint met Dakota in the hotel lobby, they walked over to the saloon together and ordered a beer each.

  “Before we go see the mayor, I have to talk to you about something.”

  “What?”

  “What would you think of not hunting the Wendigo?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To stay alive.”

  “I’m not afraid, Clint.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  “Then why would I not go?”

  “I had a talk with Fiddler this morning,” he admitted. “He seems to think he’s the only one who can kill it.”

  “My bullets are as good as his.”

  "He says you need more than bullets,” Clint replied. "You need magic.”

  “Clint,” Dakota said, “you can’t believe everything Jack Fiddler tells you. He’d old.”

  “No way I can talk you out of this?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s always the money to think about.”

  “Oh, yeah, the money.” He told her what the sheriff had said, that she might be better off going for the bounty.

  “Well, like you said,” she answered, “let’s see what the mayor has to say.”

  “Okay,” he said, “have it your way.”

  She touched his arm.

  “I know you’re not scared for yourself, so you’re scared for me. That’s nice, but I’m gonna do this— with or without you.”

  “I get it,” he said. “Let’s go see Hizzoner.”

  Sheriff Dekker was waiting in front of City Hall.

  “Adams, Dakota,” he said. “The mayor’s waitin’.”

  “Let’s go,” Dakota said.

  They followed the lawman into the building and to the mayor’s office.

  “Mayor Payne, this is Clint Adams, this is Dakota.” Dekker gestured.

  “Adams, this is a pleasure.” The mayor, a big, florid-faced man, extended his hand and Clint shook it. “Miss Dakota.”

  “Just Dakota.”

  “I must say,” he commented, “you’re not quite what I expected.”

  “Oh,” Dakota said. “Well, Clint made me take a bath.”

  “I see.” The mayor wasn’t quite sure if that was a joke or not. “Please, both of you sit.”

  They each took a chair. The sheriff stood in a corner with his arms folded.

  “I understand you want the town to hire you to hunt this . . . this Wendigo thing.”

  “Well—”

  “Clint and I think that together we can kill it faster than anyone else.”

  “Well, we certainly want this taken care of quickly,” the mayor said, “but we’ve already hired Jack Fiddler. He has a reputation for killing these . . . things.”

  “Well, that’s true, but Jack’s . . . been at it for a while.”

  “Is that your way of saying he’s getting old?” Payne asked Dakota.

  “I’m just sayin’ . . .” She trailed off and looked at Clint.

  “Dakota is just saying that maybe you can use an alternative,” he offered.

  “Yeah,” she said, “that’s all I was sayin’.”

  “Well,” Payne said, “I can tell you I wouldn’t mind having the Gunsmith—and Dakota—hunting this thing.”

  “Then you’ll do it?” Dakota asked.

  “I tell you what,” Payne said, “let’s make a deal. If you two kill the Wendigo, we’ll give you the bounty, and the town will match it. How’s that? A thousand each?”

  “I’m not interested in the money,” Clint said. “All the money will go to Dakota.”

  “Whatever you want to do with the money, that’s your business,” Payne said. “Is it a deal?”

  Clint looked at Dakota, leaving it to her.

  “It’s a deal, Mr. Mayor.”

  “The sheriff can tell you where this thing struck last,” the mayor said, standing up. “I wish you both luck.”

  They all shook hands and then they followed Sheriff Dekker out.

  “Sheriff, did Fiddler get to look at the dead man and question the survivor?” Dakota asked.

  “He did it last night.”

  “Can we do it today?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t see why not?” Dekker said. “I’ll take you now, and fill you in on the way.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Two brothers had been out hunting the Wendigo after the creature had been blamed for three deaths already.

  “Larry and Billy Lawrence,” Dekker said. “Twenty-something, both of them. About a year apart. Fancied themselves crack shots because they could shoot jackrabbits. The boys went out a few days ago, but only Larry came back. He got me, and we went out to get his brother’s body.”

  “How was he killed?” Clint asked.

  “I’ll let Larry tell you the same story he told me,” Dekker said, “and Fiddler.”

  “First, let’s see the body,” Dakota said.

  “It’s been at the undertaker’s for days,” Dekker said. “Gettin’ kinda ripe.”

  “We’ll take a look at it,” Clint said, “and then the undertaker can bury it.”

  Dekker led them to the undertaker’s office.

  “Albert has been the undertaker here for over twenty years,” Dekker said.

  “Closer to thirty,” Albert said. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dakota. And you, Mr. Adams. You’ve certainly provided enough work for me and my kind over the years.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Albert.”

  “Well, you gave me some work yesterday.”

  “They’re more interested in work you’ve still got to do, Albert,” Dekker said. “They want to see Billy Lawrence’s body.”

  “When will I be able to bury that poor boy?” Albert asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Dekker said, “you can bury him tomorrow. Now show them the body.”

  “Come with me.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Dekker said. “I’ve seen it too many times.”

  Clint and Dakota followed Albert to a room in the back. As they got closer, the smell got stronger. Clint recognized the smell of death. Dakota gagged for a moment when they reached the door. The odor didn’t seem to bother the undertaker.

  “Will you be all right?” Clint asked her.

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  There was no door, only a curtain. Albert pushed it aside and they entered. The undertaker walked to a body on a table, covered by a sheet. He drew the sheet back.

  “Take it off completely,” Dakota said.

  It was barely a body. It had been torn to shreds. An arm and a leg had been torn off and were lying on the table with it. Great chunks had been taken out of the body. If the legend of the Wendigo was true, the young man had been eaten.

  “Enough?” Clint asked.

  “Yeah,” Dakota said.

  “Cover it up,” Clint said, “and get the poor bastard buried as soon as possible.”

  “His brother can’t afford—”

  “I’ll pay for it,” Clint said. “Give him a good coffin.”

  He took Dakota’s arm and led her out of the room. “I’ve never seen anything like that,” she said when they reached Dekker.

  “Neither have I,” Dekker said.

  “That makes three of us,” Clint said. “Let’s get some air.”

  Outside they started walking, Dekker guiding them to see the other Lawrence brother.

  “Ever see a bear do that, Dakota?” Dekker asked.

  “No, never.”

  “Do you believe in the Wendigo?” Dekker asked her.

  “I never really did . . . until now.”

  “Clint?”

  “I reserve my opinion,” Clint said.

  “But do you know of an animal that’s ever done that?” Dekker asked. “A big cat, maybe?”

  “No,” Clint said. “Never.”

  “So then maybe old Fiddler is right,” Dekker said. “There’s a Wendigo, and
he can kill it.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  Sheriff Dekker took them to a small shack outside of town to the south.

  “The Lawrence boys lived here with their parents. They both died years ago. Drunks, both of them.”

  “How’s Larry doing?” Clint asked.

  “You’ll see,” Dekker said as they reached the door. “He’s scared, won’t come out of the shack for any reason. I tried—well, you’ll see.”

  Dekker knocked, and they heard a stifled scream from inside.

  NINETEEN

  Dekker opened the door and the three of them went in. They found Larry Lawrence cowering on a cot. From the smell, they could tell the knock on the door had caused the man to pee his pants. They couldn’t be certain because he had the sheet pulled up over him.

  “Larry, it’s Sheriff Dekker. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  “Sh-sheriff?” Lawrence looked up at the man.

  “I brought some people to see you,” Dekker said. “Clint Adams and Dakota.”

  Lawrence looked up at them with frightened eyes. He had part of the sheet in his mouth.

  “They’re gonna kill the Wendigo for you, Larry.”

  Lawrence released the sheet from his mouth and said, “I thought Fiddler was gonna kill it.”

  “He is,” Dekker said. “They’re all gonna kill it. What they need from you is to tell them what you saw.”

  “I saw—I saw that thing kill my brother,” the boy said. “He tore him apart, he . . . it ate parts of him. That’s what I saw! That’s what I see every time I close my eyes.”

  “Larry,” Clint said, “what does the Wendigo look like?”

  “Huge,” Lawrence said, “long teeth, a head like a skull. Claws. It was horrible.”

  Clint looked at Dakota, who shrugged

  “And yellow eyes,” Lawrence said. “Don’t forget it has yellow eyes. They glow in the dark!”

  “Where did you and your brother—”

  “I can tell you that,” Dekker said. “Let’s leave Larry alone now. He’s got to change his trousers.”

  “Kill it,” Larry Lawrence yelled at them from his bed. “Kill it, kill it, kill it.”

  “They’ll kill it, Larry,” Dekker said. “You change your trousers, huh?”

  They could still hear him shouting “Kill it!” when they got outside.

  Blaine and Largent were mounting their horses in front of the livery stable.

  “So what about Fiddler?” Largent asked. “And Adams and the girl?”