The Valley of the Wendigo (4 page)

“What was you doin' in Denver?” Pat Sanchez asked.

“I was screwin' your Mexican mama,” Blaine said. “What the hell does it matter what I was doin' there? I seen him!”

“Think he's here for the bounty?” Largent asked.

“I ain't never heard of him chasin' no bounty,” Blaine said, “but things change.”

“What chance we got if'n he's gonna be huntin'?” Sanchez asked.

“Shut up, Pat,” Blaine said.

“Why you always tellin' me to shut up?”

“Because you're always askin' stupid questions, that's why,” Largent said.

Sanchez thought about protesting, but decided to pout instead.

“Bad enough we got that old Indian in town,” Largent said.

“That Fiddler,” Blaine said. “Some day soon he's just gonna fall off his horse and die.”

“What about Dakota?”

“Her?” Blaine snorted. “She's held together by dirt and stink. She won't be a problem.”

“So then the only problem will be this Wen-digo, or whatever it is,” Sanchez said.

“I'm tellin' ya,” Blaine said to both men, “it's a goddamned bear. It's gotta be.”

“And we can kill a bear,” Sanchez said.

“Yeah,” Blaine said, “we can, and collect the five-hundred-dollar bounty.”

“We gonna split that even?” Sanchez asked.

“We sure are, Pat,” Blaine said. “Two hundred for me and Denny and a whole hundred for you.”

Pat Sanchez's eyes glittered and he said, “Hot damn!”

Using the mirror behind the bar, Clint could watch the three men who had been studying him. It was his guess they were either after him for his rep, or they were hunters looking at him as competition. That five-hundred-dollar bounty was bringing them into town, and because it wasn't a huge amount of money, it was going to bring in quite a few penny-ante hunters. If it were, say, twenty-five hundred dollars, then the professional hunters would be coming in. So far, the only pros he'd seen or heard about were Dakota and Fiddler, and they were here because they were from these parts—meaning Northern Minnesota and the southern part of Canada.

And, of course, it was more than money that had brought Jack Fiddler. From what Clint had heard, this man considered hunting Wendigos as his mission in life. The bounty—or his fee, whatever he could work out—was just to keep him going.

He finally decided that the three men were hunters. They didn't have the look of hard cases who'd be out to prove their mettle against the Gunsmith.

He turned his thoughts to Dakota.

Clint was thinking about calling it a night—he'd had enough beer, and poker was still not a draw—when the batwings opened and a woman stepped in. He didn't recognize her at first, but then he did, from the way her body looked and the way she moved. Her face and hair, though, looked as if they belonged to somebody else entirely.

“Don't tell me . . .” the bartender said, coming over to Clint.

“I told you there was a woman underneath that dirt,” Clint said.

“You was right, friend.”

Dakota saw Clint at the bar and came walking over. Apparently, she'd had some clean clothes in her gear, and she seemed very uncomfortable in them. She'd left the bandolier behind, but was still wearing her gun.

“I feel funny,” she said when she reached him.

“You look great,” he said. “Your hair's beautiful.”

She touched it quickly and said, “It is?”

“And it smells clean.”

“That's just the soap,” she said, smelling her own hand and arm. “I think I used too much.”

“You can't use too much soap, Dakota,” Clint told her.

“Well, I still feel funny.”

“Would you like a beer?”

“Yeah, I would.”

Clint signaled the bartender. He brought one over and gave Dakota a long look before drawing back.

“What's his problem?”

“Don't think he's seen a pretty woman around here in a long time.”

She looked at him as if he was crazy.

“You think I'm pretty?”

“I think you're very pretty.”

She blushed, and it embarrassed her and made her mad.

“Cut it out,” she said. She took a big swallow of her beer. “Okay, so I took a bath. Now you got to hold up your end of the bargain.”

“I'll talk to the sheriff about getting you in to talk to the mayor,” he said.

“That ain't what you said,” she told him. “You said you'd come talk to the mayor with me.”

“Is that what I said?”

“I wouldn'ta taken a bath, otherwise.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Don't get upset. I'll do my best to get the mayor to see us tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

A couple of cowboys walked past, looked Dakota up and down.

“What are ya lookin' at?” she demanded.

Both men quickened their pace and went out, the batwings swinging hard behind them.

“Take it easy,” Clint said. “You scrubbed the dirt off and now men are noticing what an attractive woman you are.”

“Stop sayin' stuff like that!”

"Why?”'

“I ain't used ta it.” She sulked. “I don't know what to do.”

“When somebody compliments you,” Clint said, “it's usually polite to say thank you. That's all.”

“I ain't used ta bein' polite.”

“Well, nobody says you have to get used to it,” Clint said. “If you don't want to do it, don't do it.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said. “Also, the nice thing about a bath is that it doesn't last very long. Once you step outside, you start getting dirty again.”

She stared at him steadily for a moment, then asked, “Are you makin' fun of me?”

“Maybe,” he said, then added, “just a little.”

“Who the heck is that?” Pat Sanchez asked when Dakota joined Clint at the bar.

The two men with him turned their heads to have a look.

“I don't believe it,” Denny Blaine said.

“Is that Dakota?” Largent asked.

“It sure is.”

“I ain't never seen her look like that.”

“That's because you ain't never seen her so clean,” Blaine said. “I wonder what made her clean up?”

“Maybe it was the Gunsmith,” Sanchez said.

“Shut up, Pat,” Blaine said. “She must have some-thin' up her sleeve.”

“You mean she's pullin' somethin'?” Largent asked.

“Yeah,” Blaine said, “that's the only reason she'd take a bath and wear clean clothes.”

“I wonder what it is?”

Pat Sanchez was going to take a guess. But he knew they'd just tell him to shut up again, so he kept quiet.

“What if they're teamin' up?” Largent asked.

“Whataya mean?” Blaine asked.

“Adams and Dakota,” Largent said. “What if they team up and hunt this . . . thing together? Then we gotta worry about Jack Fiddler
and
them.”

Blaine rubbed his jaw.

“You might have a point.”

“So what do we do about it?”

“I know what I'd do,” Pat Sanchez said.

Blaine looked at him and asked, “What? What would you do, Pat?”

“I'd get rid of them two.”

“And how would you do that, Pat?” Largent asked.

“I'd kill 'em both.”

“Dakota and the Gunsmith?” Blaine was surprised.

“I ain't afraid of no Gunsmith,” Sanchez said, puffing up his chest.

Blaine and Largent both studied Sanchez. He was twenty-three, ten years younger than both of them. He was young, and he was annoying.

“So why not?”

“Okay,” Blaine said, as Largent nodded to him. “Show us.”

“What?”

“Show us how you'd do it.”

“Well . . . I'd wait for them outside and take them when they wuz walkin' to the hotel.”

“He didn't say
tell us
,” Largent pointed out. “He said
show us.
”

“Ya mean . . . go do it?”

“Unless you've scared,” Largent said.

“I tol' ya I ain't scared.”

“Then like I said,” Blaine told him, “show us.”

Sanchez glared at both of them, then said, “Fine, I will show you. Both of you.”

He got up and stormed out of the saloon.

“You think he'll really do it?” Largent asked.

“Naw, he ain't that dumb.”

“What if he is?” Largent asked. “He might get killed.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Blaine said, “and maybe he'll take one of them with him. Either way we make out. And if he gets killed, we get more of a split.”

“I didn't think of that,” Largent said.

Blaine sat back and said, “I did.”

Dakota had a few more beers while Clint nursed the same one, and before long she was drunk.

“Come on,” he said at one point, “I'll get you back to your hotel.”

“Why?” she asked. “Ain't there no more men here that wanna compliment me?”

“There probably are,” he said, “but I think you need to get some rest. You've got a big day ahead of you.”

“Oh, I get it.” She poked him in the chest with her forefinger. “You want me all to yourself.”

“Now you've got it,” he said. “Come on, I'll keep you all to myself at the hotel.”

He took her by the shoulders, turned her, and propelled her toward the doors.

Outside a nervous Pat Sanchez found himself a spot in a doorway across from the saloon. He figured when Clint Adams and Dakota came out, he'd follow them. He didn't know if they were staying at the same hotel or not, but it didn't matter. As long as they were walking together, he'd get them—both of them. Two bullets—one each in the back—and he'd show Blaine and Largent who was scared and who wasn't.

See if they told him to shut up after that.

Outside Clint had to hold onto Dakota to keep her walking in a straight line, and she didn't seem to mind. He didn't, either. Holding her confirmed what he'd thought: She had a solid body, heavy breasts, and good thighs—a big girl in every way, but not at all fat. She smelled good, too, and he took advantage of that, leaning in to sniff her hair. He knew the condition wouldn't last long.

“Hey, what're ya doin'?” she asked, leaning away.

“Just smelling you.”

“Oh, yeah?” she leaned back in. “How about I smell you. How would you like that?”

“I'd like that fine.”

“Oh, yeah? Next thing I know you'll be wantin' ta kiss me.”

“When was the last time you were kissed, Dakota?”

“Loonng time,” she said, thought about it, then nodded and said again, “Long time.”

He turned her to face him and would have kissed her, but that was when the shooting started.

Clint grabbed Dakota and took her down to the ground. He was surprised to find her gun in her hand by the time they hit the dirt. It impressed him. Even drunk, she thought to go for her gun.

He didn't know where the shots had come from, but when a third was fired and he saw the muzzle flash, he fired at it twice. Dakota saw where he was shooting and did the same.

They heard glass break, but at least one chunk of lead must have hit home. Someone cried out, and then a man came staggering out of the darkness, gun dangling from his hand, into the center of the street, where he went sprawling face first.

Clint and Dakota came up off the ground and walked over to where the man was lying. His gun was in the dirt next to him and Clint kicked it away. He then leaned over and turned the man over onto his back. He was young, early twenties, and Clint thought he had seen him before.

“Know him?” he asked Dakota.

“No,” she said. “Never saw him before. You?”

“I think so . . . I don't know him, but I'm pretty sure I've seen him.”

They both looked up as they heard footsteps approaching. Some of the men came running from the saloon, but in front of the pack was Sheriff Dekker.

“What the hell's goin' on?” he demanded.

“Damned if we know, Sheriff,” Clint said. “We were just walking back to the hotel when this jasper opened fire on us from behind.”

“You kill him?” Dekker asked.

“We both returned fire, Sheriff,” Dakota said. “No way of knowing which one of us killed him.”

“Know 'im?”

“No,” she said.

“I've seen him before,” Clint said, “since I came to town, but I don't know where.”

“Anybody know this kid?” Dekker asked the group of men behind him.

Some men stepped forward to look and shook their heads. The others just stayed where they were.

“Okay, Lenny, you and Zeke and a couple of others carry him over to the undertaker. I'll check his pockets there.” He turned to Clint, who had replaced the spent shells in his gun and was holstering it. “Where were you goin'?”

“Back to the hotel.”

“You both stayin' at the same one?”

“Yes.”

“Go, then,” Dekker said. “I'll talk to both of you tomorrow. The rest of ya get goin'. Ain't nothin' ta see here.”

“Sheriff?” Clint said.

“Yeah?”

“We're both fine, thanks for asking.”