Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
Watch for FIVE POINTS
Nightmare
Something moved again, making enough of a racket that he thought Blaine should’ve woke up.
“Somethin’s out there,” Largent said.
Blaine kept snoring.
“Denny, wake up!” He said. “Somethin’ comin’.”
Blaine snorted, but didn’t move.
“Goddamn it, Denny—” Largent snarled, but he got no further. Whatever it was in the brush suddenly came out and moved at him with incredible speed. He saw large teeth, and two burning, yellow eyes.
“Oh, my God,” he breathed.
He got off two shots—and no more.
Blaine came blearily awake in time to see Ed Largent’s head bouncing toward him.
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THE VALLEY OF THE WENDIGO
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / May 2008
Copyright © 2008 by Robert J. Randisi.
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ONE
The town of Rosesu, Minnesota, on the border of Canada, was in the grips of terror when they sent for Jack Fiddler. Fiddler, a Cree Indian, was said to have hunted the Wendigo—or the Wee-tee-go, as the Indians called it—and killed fourteen of the creatures. He was, therefore, in demand as a hunter. When he rode into town, he was met by the sheriff, the head of the town council, and the mayor.
The sheriff, Troy Dekker, did not approve of bringing the Cree in to hunt the creature—especially because he did not believe in the Wendigo. But he was overruled by the council and the mayor and was, as part of his job, expected to cooperate with the hunter.
“Jesus,” he said as Fiddler rode in, “he must be a hundred years old.”
Indeed, Fiddler had the appearance of a man much older than his sixty-five years.
“Just let me do the talking, Sheriff,” Mayor Stewart Payne said. “We just need you to be here and to cooperate.”
“Why am I here?” Adam Styles complained. “I got a store to run.”
“You’re head of the town council, Adam,” Payne said, “that’s why you’re here.”
The three men were standing in front of the town hall, where the mayor had his office and the council met. They knew the man riding in was Jack Fiddler. He was clad in buckskins, had a multitude of paraphernalia hanging off his horse—traps, weapons, the tools of his trade. As he drew closer and closer, he did appear to be aging.
“You’re right,” the mayor said, “he does look a hundred.”
“Then you’ll forget this and let me do my job?” Sheriff Dekker asked.
“No,” Mayor Payne said, “we’re not hiring him for his looks. He gets results.”
“Yeah,” Dekker said, “in Canada.”
“Canada,” Payne reminded him, “is only a few miles away, Sheriff.”
As Jack Fiddler approached, they noticed that his chestnut mare looked almost as old as he did.
When the old Cree reached them, he dismounted and stood facing the trio.
“Jack Fiddler?” the mayor asked.
“I a
m Fiddler.”
“I’m Mayor Stewart Payne,” the mayor said. “This is Adam Styles and Sheriff Dekker. Thank you for coming. We’ve arranged for you to stay at the hotel, at no cost to you. The town will absorb the expense.”
“I prefer to sleep outside,” Fiddler said. “I will make camp somewhere.”
“Oh, well, as you wish,” Payne said. That was an expense the town would be spared. “Sheriff Dekker, here, will give you all the assistance you need.”
“I need no assistance.”
“You’re gonna hunt that thing alone?” the sheriff asked.
“I prefer it that way.”
Dekker exchanged a glance with Payne, who simply shrugged.
“Well,” Styles said, “since Mr. Fiddler is here and we’ve all met, I’d better be getting back to the store.”
“I will be requiring some supplies,” Fiddler said.
Styles stopped, looked at Fiddler’s horse.
“Looks like you got a ton of supplies hangin’ on your horse, there.”
“Mr. Styles owns and operates the general store,” Mayor Payne said. “You can go there and take what you need, for free.”
“At the town’s expense,” Styles corrected.
“Yes, of course,” Payne said.
“How many have been killed?” Fiddler asked.
“Five,” Payne said. “It was four when we sent for you, but it’s five now.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Was anyone with the five people when they were killed?” Fiddler asked.
“Four of them were alone,” Payne said. “But the man who was killed last night, he had somebody with him.”
“I would like to see them both.”
“Both?” the mayor asked.
“The dead man and the one who was with him.”
“Sheriff Dekker will arrange that.”
“And the other four who were killed?”
“They’ve been buried.”
“Too bad,” Fiddler said.
“You wanna dig ’em up?” Dekker asked. He looked at Mayor Payne. “I mean, since we’re givin’ him everythin’ else he needs.”
Payne gave Dekker an annoyed look, but Fiddler said, “No, there is no need to defile the dead. I will camp now, and then I would like to see the two.”
“There’s a clearing north of town,” Payne said. “Uh, but it’s a ways away from here. You’d be . . . alone out there.”
“I understand.” The Cree looked at Styles. “I will come to your store later today.”
“Fine,” Styles said. He looked at the mayor. “Can I go now?”
“Yes,” Payne said. “We can all go now.”
Fiddler nodded, remounted, and rode his horse toward the north end of town.
“You really gonna count on him to get this thing?” Dekker asked.
“There’s a bounty on it,” Payne said. “He’s not the only one going after it.”
“He’s the only one we’re payin’,” Dekker said.
“Can you think of anyone else?”
“I can,” Dekker said. “Fella rode into town today who would fit the bill, if he’d do it.”
Payne stared after Fiddler, then said, “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in having a backup. Who’s your man?”
“Name’s Clint Adams,” Dekker said. “Recognized him as soon as he rode into town?”
“The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right.”
“Will he do it?”
“If we offer him enough money.”
“We’re already paying Fiddler.”
“Well, if Fiddler doesn’t get the job done,” Dekker said. “I mean, if the old Indian gets killed.”
“Well, talk to Adams,” Payne said. “See what he says. See how long he’s going to be in town. Feel him out.”
“You gonna want to talk to him?”
“Probably,” Payne said. “Who’s to say his reputation is any more real than Jack Fiddler’s?”
“At least he ain’t a hundred years old,” Dekker said. “And at least he’s American.”
“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.”
TWO
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.”
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.”
THREE
“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.”
The Valley of the Wendigo Page 1
