Wendigo

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  John sat quietly listening as the trapper rambled on. Nevertheless, he had to acknowledge that Askook was making some valid points. “Do you have firsthand knowledge of missing people?”

  “A few.”

  “Locally?”

  “And across the line in Quebec. This thing has been hunting for a long time.”

  John knew that the Wendigo was a very accomplished and skilled hunter, especially at night. Like a vampire its powers increased after the sunset and like a werewolf, it was capable of shape-shifting. He couldn’t help but wonder how tall it would be if, as Askook said, it had been hunting for years.

  “All in all,” Askook said, “they’re pretty miserable. The hunger drives them crazy. No sooner do they feed than they become hungry again. So they never stop hunting.”

  “In the thirty-something years you been working these woods, have you ever seen one?”

  “If I had, I wouldn’t be here talking to you.”

  John decided to test whether or not Askook was leading him on. “The Wendigo is a tale used to scare kids and warn against the evil of gluttony. Surely you don’t believe it exists?”

  “I do.” Askook looked sincere when he said, “You do too, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  The old trapper turned serious. “Whatever this killer is, it’s one sick sumbitch and has been at this for quite a while.” He glanced at the small window that faced west. “Gonna be dark in an hour. If you ain’t planning on stayin’ the night you better get your ass out of here. Wendigo or no Wendigo, it ain’t smart to be running around alone after dark.”

  John looked at the sun and agreed that he was running out of daylight. “You know a guy named Paul Condor?”

  “Never met him.”

  John stood up. “Well—”

  “Don’t be in such a damned rush,” Askook said. “I never met Paul Condor … but I sure as hell heard about him. Killed his father about thirteen or fourteen years ago.”

  John Bear sat down again.

  _____________

  The Wendigo studied the cabin and hissed. Kills Many Snakes and the Indian warden had been in there for more than an hour. There was no doubt what the major discussion was. His existence was in jeopardy. They would both have to be dealt with if he wanted to remain alive. He turned away and trudged through the snow that would be waist high on most people, but was only knee deep on him. Askook wasn’t as much of a threat as the game warden. Askook would be here whenever Wendigo wanted him.

  The Wendigo disappeared into the darkening forest.

  23

  Del’s Place

  John Bear was in his usual seat below the dust-covered moose head when Laura Wells walked into the dining room at Del’s. She slid into the seat across from him and looked up at the trophy. “You may regret doing that,” he said.

  Laura studied the cobwebs and dust bunnies for several seconds. “So long as he doesn’t have a sinus infection or head cold, I should be all right.”

  John smiled at her. “The more I get to know you, the more I like you.”

  She grinned. “That’s all part of the plan…. Besides—what’s not to like?”

  Del appeared and they placed their drink orders. As he walked across the room, Laura asked John, “So what’ve you been up to for the past couple of days? I’ve looked all over the place for you and no one has seen you.”

  “I been beating the hell out of the boonies.”

  “The boonies?”

  “The woods…. It’s short for the boondocks.”

  “Humph, and for years I called them the willy-wags.”

  “Willy-wags? I hope that if and when you write your article about this you don’t use that phrase.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll come up with something more professional than either boonies or willy-wags.”

  Del brought a couple of beers and placed them on the table. “You two eatin’ or just drinkin’ beer and bullshittin’?”

  “My usual,” John said.

  “I figured as much,” Del said.

  “What is his usual?” Laura asked Del.

  “Every time he comes in he orders a rib-eye steak, medium-well, mashed potato, and the vegetable of the day. It comes with bread and garden salad. He eats so many steaks his cholesterol must be through the roof—his arteries have got to be full of sludge.” He smiled at her and said, “What about you?”

  “Do you serve seafood?”

  “I serve a great grilled salmon … it comes with all the fixings, choice of potato, veggie, and salad.”

  “That sounds terrific to me.”

  “Dressing on your salad?”

  “Something low-calorie, if you have it.”

  “Got a great vinaigrette. Tonto here always wants French.” Del chuckled and then was gone.

  “Getting back to our conversation,” Laura said. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  “Well, I’ve been interviewing some of the local characters. I was up in Dowd Settlement—”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

  “No reason you would have.” He gave her the background information on Linwood Dowd and his family.

  When he was finished, Laura said, “I think I saw them once … in the movie Deliverance.”

  “Between you and me, there isn’t much difference.”

  He then told her about his visit to Megedagik Askook.

  “You’re serious when you say his name is Kills Many Snakes? The other day I thought you might be foolin’ with the city girl.”

  “That’s a rough translation, but close enough.”

  “I’ve got to meet this guy.”

  “Laura, these people make a hermit seem sociable. They live off the land—if I watched them for a week I could probably arrest them and put them away. The thing is, they only poach what they need and they waste nothing. Animal hides become either clothes or blankets and anything that isn’t fit for human consumption becomes food for their dogs or bait when they hunt and fish.”

  “I have never encountered people like this in my entire life.”

  John laughed. “And these are the ones who at least border on normal. I can show you people who are far worse.”

  “So what is next?”

  Del reappeared with their salads and a platter of freshly baked bread. “Entrees will be right up,” he said.

  When Del turned away, John said. “Both Dowd and Askook spoke of another giant in the area.”

  Del stopped and turned back. “Now there is a real piece of work.”

  “You know him?” John asked.

  “I know who Askook is. Ain’t nobody really knows him, if you get my drift. Matter of fact he was just in yesterday and paid his bill up to date.”

  “You act surprised,” John replied.

  “It ain’t often that a trapper pulls a wad of money from his pocket, peels off two one-hundred-dollar bills, and hands it to you. I asked if he’d had a good season—he gave me a nunya business answer then got on his sled and left.”

  Del turned toward the kitchen. “I better see about your meals.”

  Laura stared at John across the table. “Where’s this guy live?”

  “Over by the Slash, on the western border. You can throw a stone and hit Quebec from there.”

  “The Slash? You people have more places that I’ve never heard of and each has its own name. What’s the Slash?”

  “Once you get below Estcourt Station, there’s no natural line of demarcation between Maine and Quebec. So the United States and Canada cut a right-of-way, sort of like they do when they run a power line, only instead of puttin’ up power poles, they placed concrete markers, called monuments, in the middle of it to mark the border.”

  “There’s no fence or anything?”

  “Nope, just a twenty-foot-wide slash through the woods, runs all the way from Maine to Washington state. It runs by Hafford Pond and right through the middle of Viverette Settlement.”

  “You going there in the morning?”

 
“Looks as if I got no choice.” John sighed. “I was just up there a couple days ago. It’s a long ride and I got to go by sled. There’s no guarantee those roads have been plowed.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “What?”

  “You promised that you’d give me an exclusive, but the story won’t be any good unless I’ve experienced the land.”

  “Like I said, it’s a long ride.”

  “I’ve been on snowmobiles since I was a kid. I can handle it.”

  “Are you willing to head out before sunrise?”

  “I’m ready to do whatever it takes.”

  24

  Dowd Settlement

  Dwain Dowd walked into the kitchen and flopped into a vacant chair at the table. His aunt, Amy, glanced at him and he scowled at her.

  “What’s eatin’ at you this morning?” she asked.

  “The old man won’t let me do nothin’.”

  Amy Dowd studied her angry nephew for several seconds. “Which nothin’ won’t he let you do?”

  He crossed his arms across his chest and his face twisted into an adolescent pouting frown. “Don’t matter which nothin’, he won’t let me do it.”

  “Maybe if you were a bit more specific I might be able to talk to him.”

  “Would you do that Aunt Amy?”

  She sipped from the mug of coffee that sat in front of her. “Of course it would depend on what partic’lar nothin’ I’m askin’ him for.”

  The boy stood up, walked to the refrigerator, and opened it. He stared inside for several seconds, while he debated whether or not to tell his aunt what it was he wanted her to approach his father about. He came to a decision and closed the refrigerator door. I want to go over to the Cochrans and play with Murdock.” He turned toward his aunt to plead his case. “Ain’t nobody ’round here my age. They’s all either older or just kids.”

  Amy suppressed a smile. Dwain fancied himself to be quite grown, but was still only thirteen years old. Granted he was mature, but still thirteen was thirteen and there were many potentially dangerous things living in the woods around them—and that didn’t take into account the killer who was out there someplace.

  “Dwain, it’s over fifteen miles to the Cochran place over in Dickey an’ it ain’t safe to leave the settlement alone these days.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Aunt Amy, it ain’t like I’m a little kid no more.”

  She sat back and pondered his request. The boy’s father, her brother Buster, was not an unreasonable man, nowhere near as stubborn as their father, Earl, but still, once he made up his mind about something he seldom, if ever, reversed himself. However, as the youngest, and only female offspring of Earl Dowd, she knew the loneliness of not having someone to grow up with. She stood up and said, “I ain’t makin’ no promises now, but I’ll talk to him. Maybe if he says it’s okay, I can drive you over in one of the trucks.

  Dwain’s face lit up. “You’d do that?”

  She smiled. “Boy, its fifteen degrees out there an’ you’d freeze to death if you was to try walkin’ it.”

  “I’d wear my snowmobile suit and boots. Tell Dad that I could ride over on the old Ski-Doo.”

  “Whoa, Dwain. Let’s fight this war one battle at a time. Okay?”

  He smiled a broad smile, which disappeared within minutes when he heard the argument that developed in the next room.

  _____________

  “That goddamned kid put you up to this?” Buster Dowd scolded his sister.

  “Well, he talked to me.”

  “Well the answer is still no. No one is leavin’ this settlement until they catch whoever it is killing these people.”

  “Buster, be reasonable. There’s no other kids his age here and he gets lonely for someone of his own age and gender—you remember how it was for me, don’t you?”

  “Yeah I do, Amy, but that don’t change the fact that it ain’t safe for him to be away from the settlement and that’s the end of it. One more word and I’ll grab hold of him and wear him out. He won’t be able to sit for a week.”

  Hearing the abrupt end to the argument, Dwain ran to his room. He slid into his heavily insulated snowmobile suit and boots. He grabbed his helmet and gloves and crept out of the house. Once he was in the yard he ran to the large shed where the Dowds parked their ATVs, trucks, and snowmobiles.

  _____________

  Buster Dowd walked into the mudroom and beat snow and sawdust from his feet before entering the kitchen. He walked to the stove and poured a mug of coffee. He turned to Amy who was busy making bread for the family’s supper. “Where’s Dwain?”

  “I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

  “You tell him about our talk?” Buster asked.

  “Nope, haven’t seen him since.”

  Buster’s face reddened. “If that little shit overheard us and took off after I told him no….” He gulped a mouthful of coffee and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Buster, where you going?” Amy called, knowing her brother’s temper and his predilection to act before he thought things through.

  “I’m going to see if his sled is in the shed. If it ain’t—”

  Amy rushed to get her coat and followed Buster across the open yard. She caught up with him as he swung the door open and peered inside. “Sonuvabitch,” his voice was fraught with anger.

  “Buster, don’t be gettin’ all bent out of shape. He may be takin’ a ride and hasn’t left the settlement.”

  Buster turned and glared at her. “You an’ me both know they’s two chances of that … slim and none, and slim left town.”

  “What you goin’ to do? Whip him for bein’ just like his father? How many times did you act contrary to Dad’s orders?”

  The large man stopped in his tracks and a slow grin came across his face. “You sayin’ the apple ain’t fallin’ far from the tree?”

  “I’m saying the sins of the father will always fall on the son.”

  He slammed the shed door shut and turned away. “Well, him and me are due for a come-to-Jesus meeting.” He paused halfway across the yard and spun around. He pointed an accusatory finger at his younger sister. “Don’t you be defendin’ him either. He disobeyed and he’s gotta pay.”

  Amy stopped and stared at Buster. She struggled to keep from laughing at him. Buster had a quick temper, but he cooled down every bit as quick. By the time Dwain got home, he’d be in a much more reasonable frame of mind. Snowflakes began to drift down from the sky as Buster jumped inside of his massive logging truck and headed toward the wood lot where they were cutting timber. She knew everything would be okay, Buster would work off his anger and give his wayward son a sound tongue-lashing, but that was as far as it would go.

  As she approached the house, her father opened the door for her. Steam rolled out of the warm kitchen as the moist, warm air met the cold, dry outside air. “Everything okay?” Earl Dowd asked.

  “Just a minor father-son dispute,” she said as she stepped inside.

  “Dwain actin’ like his father again?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  _____________

  Camp 106 Road, T16, R12

  Dwain Dowd sat on the Ski-Doo staring at the brown sludge on the trail behind him. The old man is really gonna kick my ass, he thought. In spite of the heavily insulated snowmobile suit he wore, a chill set in and Dwain shivered. He wondered if anyone at home had discovered his absence. In one way he hoped they hadn’t, but with the Ski-Doo all shot to hell there was no way he could hide his disobedience from his father. If he didn’t get his ass kicked for taking off, he’d be getting it kicked for not checking the oil and gas in the sled.

  It began to snow harder. Dwain had only a rough idea where he was, but knew that he was closer to the Dickey checkpoint than home. The checkpoint however, didn’t offer him shelter. It was no longer a manned checkpoint, but there was an on-site radio call box that would connect him to the Little Black checkpoint. During this time of year, it got dark around five
o’clock and he did not want to spend the night alone in the woods. If he didn’t freeze to death, who knew what he might meet in the dark. He got off the sled and began walking.

  _____________

  After an hour of trudging toward the Dickey checkpoint, the snow had accumulated to three inches. Periodically, Dwain would turn and look at his back trail, which looked as if a huge snake had wound its way through the fresh snowpack. The snowfall had increased and the youngster knew it would be getting dark soon. He hoped that by now his father or someone at Dowd Settlement had noticed his absence and was looking for him. The sudden realization that that would make no difference caused him to pause. No one would be looking for him tonight. The Cochrans didn’t know he was coming and his father would assume that he was spending the night with Murdock and his parents. He picked up his pace, fighting the cold and numbness in his feet.

  _____________

  Daylight was fleeing fast and visibility was down to mere yards. The wind had picked up and Dwain wondered if the storm was going to become what his father called a real bejeezer. Cold and walking in the heavy snowmobile boots had taken a toll on the boy, and it took a determined effort for him to place one foot in front of another. He wondered whether he should keep walking or look for some form of shelter where he could get out of the storm for the night. He estimated that so far six inches of snow had been dumped on the area and his tracks would have been filled in. He began looking for a place to hole up when he spied a downed tree. The massive pine’s branches formed a natural windbreak and would be a perfect place for him to rest for a while. Dwain broke a trail through the snow that was so deep that he felt as if he was trying to run in water. Reaching his goal, the freezing boy used his hands to scoop out a depression in the space between two of the larger boughs.

  The boy huddled in the inadequate shelter and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to preserve what warmth the winter suit provided. His eyelids began to close and he shook his head to ward off sleep. His father had told him that being sleepy was the first step in freezing to death. Dwain felt his throat constrict as he tried to stifle a sob. He scooped up a handful of snow and washed his face with it. His skin was so cold that he didn’t feel the chill that he hoped would ward off sleep. He began to shiver violently and burrowed deeper into his hole. After a few minutes the shivering stopped and he felt sick to his stomach and a debilitating fatigue bore down on him. In seconds he was asleep.