The Valley of the Wendigo (12 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: The Valley of the Wendigo
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“Suit yourself,” Keller said. “I'm goin' to saddle my horse right now.”
“I'll get some supplies,” Dekker said, “and meet you at the livery.”
Dekker came out of the general store with a sack of supplies, ran right into Mayor Payne.
“What's going on?” the mayor asked. “I heard there was another body brought in.”
“You heard right.”
“This town's going crazy, Dekker,” Payne said.
“People running around and into each other like chickens with their heads cut off.” He noticed the sack. “Where are you off to?”
“I'm gonna do my job,” Dekker said. “Keller's goin' after that thing and I'm goin' with him.”
“You and Keller? Is that wise?”
“I got to do somethin'.”
"Yes, but Keller . . . would you even be going with him if he wasn't—”
“Don't say it, Mayor,” Dekker said, cutting the man off. “Just don't say it.”
“What do we do for law while you're gone?” Payne asked.
“Appoint a deputy,” Dekker said. “Or better yet, strap on a gun and pin a badge on yourself.”
“Who,” Payne asked, “would you advise I appoint as a deputy in your absence?”
Dekker met Keller in front of the livery.
“Feller in there told me this was your horse, so I saddled it,” Keller said.
“Thanks.”
Dekker tied the sack to his saddle horn, slid his rifle into the scabbard, and mounted up.
“What's in the sack?”
“Just some jerky and coffee,” Dekker said. “And some extra shells.”
“Everythin' we need,” Keller said, swinging into his saddle.
“Keller, this don't mean that anythin's changed between us,” Dekker said.
“I know it.”
“Okay, just wanted to make sure.”
“Just don't get in my way if we find Clint Adams first,” Keller advised.
“Hey,” Dekker said, “if you want to get killed, don't let me stop you.”
“You think he's that good?”
“He's got the rep.”
“I got a rep.”
“Not like his.”
“How old is he now, anyway?”
Dekker gigged his horse forward and said, “Old enough, I guess.”
THIRTY-FIVE
“Look,” Clint said.
Dakota stared ahead, where Clint was pointing.
“A cliff?” she asked.
“Maybe . . .”
They rode up to it, dismounted, and walked to the edge. They found themselves looking down into the canyon.
“Long way down,” he said.
They could see how far the canyon spread in either direction.
“It's more of a valley than a canyon,” Clint said, looking down at it from above.
“I can't see Fiddler,” she said.
“Come on,” he said. “If we ride along this ridge, maybe we can find a way down.”
“How would we find him down there?” she asked. “How would we find our way back to that cave, where we left him?”
“I don't know,” Clint said. “But before we can worry about that, we've got to find a way down.”
“All right,” she said, remounting, “let's go.”
They'd only ridden a short way when Dakota said, “Wait.”
“What is it?”
She dismounted. Went down to one knee and studied the ground.
“Tracks?” he asked.
She looked back at him over her shoulder. “We've got a big cat in the area,” she said.
“Great,” he said, “that's all we need.”
She mounted up and looked at him.
“At least we know a cat can be killed by a bullet.”
“Yeah,” he said, “unless it's a magic cat.”
“Don't even think that,” she said.
“Okay,” Dekker said, “you're the big tracker. Go ahead and track.”
Keller dismounted, walked the ground ahead of him for a few seconds, then turned to look up at Dekker.
“What do you want me to track?”
“Whataya mean?”
“I've got tracks from horses,” Keller said.
“Forget that. They could've been made by anybody.”
“I've got sign that something very big passed by here.”
“How big?”
“Real big,” Keller said. “Bigger than a grizzly.”
“And what else?”
“Paw prints,” Keller said.
“Cougar?”
“Looks like it.”
“Damn it,” Dekker said. “Cougars don't usually attack humans, do they?”
“Not normally,” Keller said. “They're hunt-and-prey specialists. They'll stalk somethin' for a long time before they finally attack it, and then usually only for food.”
“Then why's this one attacking men?”
“I don't know,” Keller said, “but I'll tell you something else. They're very territorial. They won't even compete with a wolf for hunting ground. They'd rather look somewhere else. You've got somethin' else at work here, somethin' big. I don't know why a big cat would choose to hunt here, especially now.”
“What would be your guess?”
Keller stared up at Dekker and said, “This ain't no normal cat.”
“What now?” Clint asked.
“The cat,” she said.
“What about it?”
She turned in her saddle and looked at him.
“I think it knows the way in and out of the canyon.”
“Valley,” Clint said.
“What?”
“It's a valley,” Clint said. “The Valley of the Wendigo.”
“Well,” Dakota said, “whatever ya wanna call it, the cat knows the way.”
“Unusual,” Clint said, “for a cat to share its hunting ground like this.”
“This whole situation is unusual,” Dakota pointed out.
“More for me than for you,” Clint said. “At least you've dealt with Fiddler before. I haven't dealt with anything like this before.”
“You'd better hope you don't have to do it again, Clint,” she told him.
“I will,” Clint said, “if we come out of this alive.”
THIRTY-SIX
Fiddler could smell the cat.
He had stayed in the Wendigo cave as long as he could, but after a while there was nothing left there for him. No hint of the Wendigo anymore. Time to go and look elsewhere.
Back on the valley floor he saw the sign of the cat. Like the others before him—Keller and Dekker, Clint and Dakota—he knew that this was no ordinary cat.
The cougar was also a ghost walker. It taught spiritual leadership. Was the cat here, he wondered, to help him kill the Wendigo?
Or for reasons of its own?
“Well, I'll be.”
Dakota turned to look at Clint, then pointed with a big smile on her face.
“I told you,” she said. “Follow the trail of the cat and he'd lead us to the valley.”
They both looked down at the path. It wound along the steep wall, and if they and their horses could walk it, they'd go all the way down to the valley floor.
“We don't know how much it thins out,” Clint said. “We bring our horses, we're taking a chance of getting stuck.”
“And if we leave them, we have the same problem as before. I say we take the chance.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “We'll ride them as far as we can, walk them when we have to.”
“We should have brought Fiddler his horse,” she said.
“No,” Clint said. “If Fiddler goes back out the way he came in, he'll want to find his horse there.”
“You're probably right.”
Clint looked down.
“I'll go first,” he said. “Eclipse is bigger than your horse. If he can make it, then so will you.”
“Mine's pretty sure-footed.”
“Good,” Clint said, “then we shouldn't have any trouble at all, should we?”
Keller stopped.
“What is it?” Dekker asked.
“Let's follow the cat,” Keller said.
“Why?”
“Because we know it's real.”
Dekker looked around. He was surprised that he hadn't heard any shots since they left town. It looked like the Wendigo and the cat had convinced all the amateurs to stay away.
“Fiddler is still out there,” he said. “Adams and the girl, too. They're lookin' for that goddamned Wendigo.”
“Okay,” Keller said. “We let them have it, and we take the cat. Or maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe the cat will lead us to the Win-dee-go.”
Clint told himself not to look down, but he did. Every time Eclipse's hoof knocked a rock or a stone over the edge, he looked down and watched it fall.
He could hear Dakota breathing hard behind him. Ever since he'd seen her look up the rock face where Fiddler had fallen, he had the feeling she was afraid of heights. Her heavy breathing was convincing him he was right.
“You okay back there?” he asked.
“I'm fine,” she said tightly.
At one point the ledge grew smaller and they decided to dismount and walk the horses.
“Just don't look down.”
“Like you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Like me.”
Fiddler heard something from above, stopped, and looked up. Could have been the Wendigo, or the cat, but instead he saw two people on horseback, negotiating a thin path down. He shook his head in admiration. They had found themselves another way into the valley.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Clint and Dakota had to walk the horses the rest of the way down. When they got there, they found themselves looking at Fiddler, who did not look any the worse for wear. He was seated on a rock, staring at them.
“What took you so long?” the old Cree asked.
Dakota gaped at him, speechless.
“How did you know where we'd be?” Clint asked.
“I didn't,” Fiddler said. “You've been dropping rocks on my head for the past half hour.”
“This isn't possible,” Dakota said.
“Everything is possible, my child.”
“Old man, you're gonna tell me that some . . . magic has brought us together at the same place and time?”
“I am not tellin' you anythin',” Fiddler said. “But look.” He stood on his feet and spread his arms out. “Here we are. Did you bring some water?”
Clint handed him a canteen.
“Thank you.”
Clint dug out a piece of beef jerky and also handed that to the old hunter. Fiddler nodded his thanks, accepted the dried meet in exchange for the canteen.
“Did you get to that cave?” Clint asked.
“Yes, I did,” Fiddler said. “The Wendigo had left nothin' behind for me.”
“Well, we have another problem.”
“The ghost cat.”
“Is that what it is?” Clint asked. “Well, why not another mythical creature?”
“This is good,” Fiddler said.
“What's good about it?” Dakota asked.
“I will continue to hunt the Wendigo,” Fiddler said, “and you can hunt the cat.”
“I don't like that,” Dakota said. “It still leaves you alone with the Wendigo.”
“That is how it must be for me to kill it,” Fiddler said. He looked at Clint. “You understand, don't you?”
“I don't understand any of this,” Clint said, “but I'm willing to go along with you, Fiddler.”
“Clint!”
He turned to face her.
“Sorry, but I'm convinced he knows what he's doing.”
“I believe the Wendigo and the cat are both in this valley,” Fiddler said, apparently having also decided that it was not a canyon, as they had been told.
“What would happen if they met up with each other?” Clint asked.
“I do not know,” Fiddler said. “It would depend on the magic each possesses—”
“What would happen if the Wendigo met up with a normal mountain lion?” Clint asked. “No magic.”
“The Wendigo would tear it to shreds,” Fiddler said. “But we already know this is not a normal cat. If it were, it would not step one paw into this valley.”
“There's got to be something we can do to find these things,” Clint said. “Or to make them find us.”
“That is true,” Fiddler said. “If the Wendigo has been active every night, I have a feeling the amateur hunters will be staying away now.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it will either have to go to town for its prey,” Fiddler said, “or come after us.”
“Will it come after you?” Dakota asked. “I mean, wouldn't your magic keep it away?”
Fiddler shook his head.
“If the Wendigo wants me, it will come,” he said. “It respects only its own magic.”
“Then maybe that's what we should do,” Clint said. “Wait for one or both of them to come for us.”
“How do we attract them?” Dakota asked.
“How did anyone attract them?” Clint asked. “By making camp, lighting a fire . . . and waiting.”
He looked at Fiddler.
“That could work.”
“We can try it tonight,” Clint said. “The next few nights. We have enough water and beef jerky—”
“I eat and drink very little,” Fiddler told him.
“Where should we camp?” Dakota asked.
"I know of a place,” Fiddler said. “Come with me. You both need rest.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
They camped, built a fire. Clint had some beans and a pan in his saddlebags, so they had beans, jerky, and coffee.

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