The Valley of the Wendigo (2 page)

“Jack Fiddler is American, Dekker,” Payne said. “He's a Cree Indian.”

“Could be Canadian.”

“What have you got against Canadians, man?” Payne asked.

Dekker stuck out his chin and said, “They ain't Americans.”

Clint Adams found Rosesu to be a very small, quiet, pleasant town. He didn't hear anything about the Wendigo until he stopped into the Border Saloon for a beer. All around him the conversation was about something called the Wendigo. From the description he heard, he assumed that the town had a crazed bear in the area, which had killed some people. Maybe a wounded grizzly or—considering how far north he was—a Kodiak. He'd seen a wounded grizzly tear men apart even while they were filling it full of lead. Saw one absorb a dozen shots to the body before somebody—himself, in fact—killed it with a head shot.

Finally, though, his curiosity got the better of him.

“What's this about a Wendigo?” he asked the bartender.

“Ah, that's some Indian myth about a creature that eats human flesh. Folks around here figure we got one out in the woods. You know what I say?”

"What?”

“Whatever it is, stay the hell outta the woods.”

Before Clint could ask any more, the man took his beer-barrel belly down the bar to serve somebody else.

“I can give you some more information on that if you want,” a man said.

Clint turned his head, saw the man standing next to him, and then saw the badge on the man's chest.

“Sheriff,” Clint said, “buy you a drink?”

“The name's Dekker,” the star packer said, “and I'd like to buy you one, Mr. Adams, and talk to you if you got the time.”

“Time's all I've got,” Clint said. “For once I'm really not headed anywhere. Just sort of drifting.”

“Picked a cold time of year to come driftin' north,” the sheriff said.

“The cold doesn't bother me much,” Clint said.

Dekker signaled for the bartender to bring two beers. He scowled as he left them and the lawman did not takes any money out of his pocket.

“Actually,” Dekker said, “the town's buyin' you that one, Adams.”

“The town, huh?” Clint asked. “And what did I do to deserve a free beer from the town?”

“It's not what you did,” Dekker said, “it's what you're gonna do.”

“And that is?”

“Maybe save this town.”

“For a beer?” Clint asked. “This I've got to hear.”

Jack Fiddler made camp just outside of town. He did not go as far as the clearing the mayor had told him about. That would have been too far to leave his horse. No, he found a likely spot closer, where the lights of the town might keep the Wendigo from coming near.

“You just stand fast, girl,” he told the mare. “And if you hear anythin', you come a-runnin'.”

He didn't tie the horse off. She'd be able to tell if something was coming for her, and she wouldn't stand around and wait to be killed. He'd had her for seven years now, and she knew enough to stand and wait unless there was danger.

Fiddler walked back into town and went to the sheriff's office. When he didn't find the man there, he changed his plans, decided to go to the general store for his supplies, and then look at the dead man and talk to the live one later.

Seemed to him the sheriff wasn't going to be as cooperative as the mayor thought.

The sheriff took Clint to a table in the rear of the saloon, vacated by two men when the lawman jerked his thumb at them.

“I've got to tell you,” Clint commented, “this is not the best beer I've ever had so your story had better be good.”

“Not a story,” the sheriff said. “This is all true. We had four people killed last month by this Wendigo. Torn to pieces . . . and eaten.”

“Eaten?”

Clint had heard of bears tearing men apart, but he hadn't heard many stories about bears who were man-eaters. Big cats, maybe, but not bears.

“Maybe what you've got is a cougar,” Clint suggested.

“It would have to be an awful big one,” the sheriff said. “No, folks hereabouts are sold on the idea of a Wendigo.”

“And a Wendigo is what?”

“A creature who eats human flesh,” the sheriff said. “That's all I know. It's an Indian myth or something— except that myths don't eat people, if you get my meanin'.”

Clint did. Real animals ate people, mythical animals did not.

“Okay,” Clint said, “you've got my attention.”

“The mayor and the town council insisted on hiring this Cree Indian called Jack Fiddler,” Sheriff Dekker said. “I was against it, but Fiddler got into town today.”

“So then he'll hunt this thing down, right?”

“I don't know,” Dekker said. “I think his reputation musta been made years ago. The guy looks ancient.”

“Fiddler,” Clint said, frowning. “Fiddler . . .”

“You heard of him?”

“I think so,” Clint said. “I think I heard he was a legendary hunter. I guess I didn't hear what he hunted, though. Wendigo, you said.”

“Yeah, an Indian myth.”

“But people in town believe it?” Clint asked. “To the extent that the mayor actually hired somebody to hunt it?”

“Look,” Dekker said, “something is out there and it's killed five of our citizens.”

“Then it sounds to me like you're lucky to have somebody like a Jack Fiddler hunting it.”

“Me,” Dekker said, “I'd rather have somebody like the Gunsmith hunting it.”

“Whoa,” Clint said. “I don't hire out as a hunter.”

“Look,” Dekker said, “you're in town, you got no place else to go—you said it yerself. How about just givin' us a hand?”

“Are you going to go out hunting it?” Clint asked.

“I was going to go with Fiddler,” Dekker said. “It's the mayor's idea.”

“And?”

“The old Indian doesn't want me,” Dekker said. “Says he hunts alone.”

“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?”

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.

“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.