“The next one could always be the last one, ol’ Horse,” he said, patting the animal’s neck.
He checked his pistol, stuck it back in his belt, then checked the action of his Winchester. Then he touched the leather sack he wore around his neck.
That was where the magic was.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Do you know what a Wendigo does after it’s killed or fed?” Clint asked her.
“No,” she said. “Fiddler would know.”
“There’s going to be more hunters traipsing around these woods today,” he said. “They might attract it.”
“If it went back to that canyon last night, after it killed,” she said, “and Fiddler was there . . .”
“We didn’t hear any other shots,” Clint said. “The Wendigo and Fiddler may have missed each other last night.”
“I hope so,” she said. “I like that old man. He thinks he can’t be killed.”
“We can all be killed,” Clint said.
“He thinks he has magic that keeps him alive,” she said, “magic that kills the Wendigo.”
“Well, for his sake,” Clint commented, “I hope he’s right.”
“It may cost me two thousand dollars,” she said, “but I hope so, too.”
It was midday by the time Clint and Dakota reached what had obviously been Fiddler’s campsite for the night. The fire was cold, but the packhorse and his own horse had been left behind.
“He went into the canyon on foot!” Clint said.
“That crazy old man,” Dakota said. “I told you he thinks he can’t be killed. He always said the best way to hunt the Wendigo was on foot.”
“What, horses and Wendigos don’t like each other?” Clint asked. “I thought the Wendigo ate human flesh. Why would they be interested in a horse?”
“I don’t know, Clint,” she said. “Maybe his mind is actually goin’ because of age. Who knows but him?”
“If he went in when he put the fire out, then he’s got hours on us,” Clint said. “He could be dead already.”
“We have to go in,” she said. “We have no choice.”
“You’re the hunter, the sign reader,” he said. “You’ll be able to tell if it’s still in there or not.”
“Hopefully,” Dakota said.
“What do you mean—hopefully?”
“Remember, Fiddler says the Wendigos are magic,” she reminded him. “Maybe they can walk without leaving tracks.”
“And maybe they can fly,” he said derisively.
“Who knows?”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I know you were,” she said, “but . . .”
“Okay,” he said, “okay, let’s not start thinking these things can fly, all right? Let’s at least keep both of our feet on the ground.”
“Do you agree we have to go in?”
“Of course,” he said. “After all, that’s what we’re here for. We might as well leave our horses here, too.”
They dismounted and tied off their horses. Clint put his hand on the fire, thought he felt some heat still there, so maybe Fiddler didn’t have as big a head start as he thought.
On foot they waked to the mouth of the canyon, where Clint waited while Dakota went over the ground. She had to widen her search pattern since the mouth of the canyon was hard and rocky.
“I can see where it came back, probably last night,” she said, coming back to him. “And I can see Fiddler’s tracks.”
“He’s an Indian,” Clint said. “He leaves tracks?”
“Even he can’t step on some brush without flattening it down,” she said.
“Okay, so they’re both still in there?”
“As far as I can tell, yes.”
“Then it’s settled,” Clint said. “We go in.”
“Do we know if this canyon has any other ways in or out?” she asked.
“The sheriff didn’t mention it.” Clint cursed himself quietly for not having asked.
“We’ll just have to hope,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. But he didn’t know if he was hoping the Wendigo was in there—or not.
TWENTY-FIVE
Clint and Dakota entered the mouth of the canyon, which started out wide enough for them to have ridden through side by side, but gradually narrowed. In the end they would not have been able to get their horses through, and would have had to take them back out. It made Clint wonder how a ten-foot Wendigo managed to negotiate the route.
“I can’t believe this is the only way in,” Dakota said. “There’s got to be another, easier way.”
“If there is we’ll find it,” Clint said.
Eventually, the route began to widen again. Clint, looking straight up, realized that at one point it was as if they were in a tunnel. He was not able to see the sky. However, by the time the route widened again the sky was visible.
“At night this whole thing must be like a tunnel,” Dakota observed.
Clint just nodded.
Finally, they came out into the interior of the canyon. It spread out in front of them, causing Clint to say, “This isn’t right. Who called this a canyon?”
“What’s wrong.”
“A canyon,” he said, “by definition, is a sort of gorge. It’s almost like a scar in the earth—long and deep but not very wide. This is too wide to be called a canyon.”
“Well, Fiddler is out there somewhere,” Dakota said. “How do we find him?”
“Are we looking for him or the Wendigo?” Clint asked.
“Doesn’t make much difference,” she said. “Find one and we’ll find the other, don’t you think?”
Fiddler was surprised at the size of the “canyon” as he entered it earlier that morning. Who had told him it was a canyon? Oh, yes, the sheriff. He doubted the lawman had ever been out here.
As long as a canyon, yes, and as deep, but wider, much wider. More ground to cover than he had originally expected.
The last Wendigo Fiddler had killed had been in Ontario, Canada, near a town called Kenora. It was his fourteenth. This one, when he killed it, would be number fifteen. That one he had found in a cave that eventually became called the Cave of the Wendigo. He looked up at the steep canyons walls and wondered how many caves honeycombed it.
Fiddler was walking the floor of the canyon on foot, tracking as much by instinct and sense of smell as anything else. The canyon floor was hard and rocky, so footprints were at a premium. Here and there a dislodged stone, a trampled bit of growth, but really not much for a conventional tracker to see.
He was not a conventional tracker. Dakota was— and she was also very talented and able to adjust.
Hopefully, she and Clint Adams were not too close on his trail.
“The ground’s too hard,” Dakota told Clint. “I’m not picking up any definite sign.”
“Keep looking,” Clint said. “I have faith in you.”
Eventually, she began to see what Fiddler had seen and they started to follow.
“Any sign of Fiddler?” Clint asked.
“Not so much as a gob of spit,” she said.
“So then we’re following the Wendigo.”
“For all I know we could be following a bear,” she sad. “Not that I think a bear killed those men last night, but we could be following a false trail.”
“I’ll bet not.”
“Why?”
“Have you actually seen any other animals?” Clint asked. “A deer, a jackrabbit? Heard any birds?”
She turned and stared at him.
“No,” she said, “now that you mention it. I should’ve noticed that. They’ve all cleared out.”
“They’re afraid,” Clint said. “That makes them smart.”
“Hey,” Dakota said. “I’m afraid. I guess that makes me smart, too.”
“Me, too,” Clint said. “Good for all of us.”
He looked up at the walls.
“I wonder how many caves are around here?”
“Too many to search,” she
said. “I’ll bet they honeycomb the walls on all sides. Let’s just hope I’m as good as I think I am and if the Wendigo is in a cave, I can find it.”
“I’ll bet you are,” he said.
She smiled.
“Right now I’d rather be in a hotel room with you.”
He laughed.
“That makes two of us.”
TWENTY-SIX
The three hunters—Fiddler ahead of Clint and Dakota—spent most of the day wandering the canyon floor, following whatever hint of sign they could find.
“It’s getting dark,” Dakota said. “Should we turn back?”
“If we do that, we’ll have to travel over old ground tomorrow,” he said.
“We didn’t bring any provisions.”
“We can make a fire,” Clint said. “I have some beef jerky in my pocket.”
She looked around.
“I suppose that’d be the best thing to do.”
“What’s Fiddler going to do?” Clint asked. “Turn back?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “He’ll keep goin’. Along with thinkin’ he can’t die, he also thinks he doesn’t have to eat.”
“What about drinking?”
“There’s plenty of water in here.”
They’d passed a couple of water holes over the past few hours.
“All right,” Clint said, “let’s look for a place to camp. We’ll need some wood for a fire.”
Ahead of them Fiddler was making camp. The logical thing to do would have been to make a cold camp, but he didn’t want to be logical. He wanted to be easy to find. The fire had to be made from brush, and he needed a lot of it to keep it going. He had a canteen over his shoulder, his pistol in his belt, and his rifle between his knees. That was all he needed to wait for the Wendigo.
“It’s colder in here than it was outside last night,” Dakota complained.
“I noticed that.”
Both were wearing jackets, but neither had brought a blanket.
“We’ll just have to huddle close together,” he said, “for body warmth.”
“Just for body warmth?” she asked, moving up close against him.
“Of course.” He put his right arm around her, pulled her close. Immediately, he felt her heat. With his left hand he unbuttoned her shirt and slipped his hand inside. He cupped one of her full breasts, felt the heat of her skin and the hardness of her nipple.
“Oh, that helps,” he said. “I feel warmer already.”
“Not fair,” she said. “I’m still cold.”
She reached over and undid his trousers, stuck her hand down the front until she could wrap her hand around his hot, thickening penis.
“Ah,” she said, “that’s better. You know, if we had a blanket we could—”
“Wouldn’t that help the Wendigo out?” he asked. “We wouldn’t notice it because we were rolling around on a blanket together.”
“Oh.” She shuddered. “You had to remind me.”
They each removed their hands, but remained huddled close.
Fiddler didn’t feel the cold.
He did not feel hunger.
And he did not feel fear.
All he felt was anticipation of the kill.
He could smell the Wendigo, and he was sure the Wendigo could smell him and his magic. If that was true, the creature would not come for him tonight. He would have to find it tomorrow.
He drank some water from his canteen, stoppered it, and then folded his arms in front of him, cradling his rifle.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The night went by uneventfully—at least, inside the canyon.
Outside, the area was swarming with hunters eager for the thousand-dollar bounty. Several of them shot each other during the course of the day, giving Sheriff Dekker some disputes to handle. Luckily, no one had been killed . . . yet.
Dekker went to see the mayor the next morning.
“It’s gonna get out of hand, Mayor,” he said. “They’re out there shooting at anythin’ that moves.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Payne demanded.
“Take the bounty off,” Dekker said. “Give Fiddler, Adams, and the girl a chance to work.”
“I can’t do that,” Payne said. “I have a duty to this town. The more guns that are out there, the more chance there is somebody will get that thing.”
“They’re gonna kill each other, sooner or later,” Dekker said. “How are you gonna explain that?”
“I won’t have to,” Payne said, “if somebody kills it. That’s all people are going to care about.”
“This is a mistake, Mayor.”
“The only mistake, Dekker, is that you’re not out there hunting for it, too.”
“I have a duty to this town, too, Mayor,” Dekker said. “That means stayin’ in town, tryin’ to keep people from gettin’ killed.”
“Then go do your job,” the mayor said. “I’m not removing the bounty. In fact, I’m considering raising it.”
Dekker opened his mouth to protest, but realized it wouldn’t do any good. He turned and stormed out of the mayor’s office. When he got to the street, he saw two hunters riding back into town, with a body wrapped in a blanket slung over a third horse. He recognized them as amateur hunters who had come into town yesterday afternoon and gone out just hours later.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“We’re not sure,” one of then said. “He got killed last night.”
“Where?”
“Out there,” the other one said.
“I know out there,” Dekker said. “Where, exactly.”
“We’re not sure.”
“Take him to the undertaker,” Dekker said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“We need a drink.”
“The saloon’s not open,” Dekker said. “It’s too early. The undertaker will have a bottle. Go and stay there until I arrive.”
“Sure, Sheriff.”
He didn’t know if the man had been killed by the Wendigo or not, but when he saw the unwrapped body he at least wanted to have the town doctor with him for an opinion.
He wondered where Fiddler, Adams, and the girl were, and if they were still alive.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Clint and Dakota each took watch and spent it with the other leaning against them, asleep. It wasn’t a good idea, because the person being leaned on ended up with one arm asleep, but they made sure it was not their gun arm.
When they were both awake, they stood and kicked the fire to death.
“What do you think happened last night?” Dakota asked. “Did it go out and kill?”
“Well, it didn’t kill us,” Clint said. “So unless it killed Fiddler, it must have.”
“And it left by going right past us?”
“Around us, more than likely,” Clint said, “or out another way. We still don’t know if there’s just the one way in or out.”
“You know,” she said, “Fiddler claims he’s killed fourteen of these things.”
“That’s impressive,” Clint said, “but I’m sure he’d never claim it was easy.”
“He says some myths say the Wendigo, when it turns sideways, is so thin it can’t be seen.”
“That doesn’t make it sound very dangerous.”
“Other myths claim they grow as large as fifteen feet.”
“Now that sounds dangerous.”
They got themselves together and started walking.
Fiddler was not concerned with other ways in or out of the canyon. He knew if the Wendigo wanted to it could scale the walls, or even fly over them. He also knew that the Wendigo would not face him until it wanted to. However, if he could find it when it was at rest, he might be able to force the issue.
Fiddler could feel through his moccasins the ground where the Wendigo had stepped. It was hotter. No other hunters—not even Dakota—could do that. That was why he would find the Wendigo before she did. The only way she could find it first was if she stumbled into it.
It wa
s well into his second day in the canyon when he thought he had at least found where the Wendigo had spent the night. It might not be there now, and it might or might not return, but he had to get a look at it, anyway.
And that meant he had to climb.
“This man was not killed by the same animal that killed the other one,” Doctor Milburn said. All the time they’d been in town together the sheriff still only knew the older man as Doc Milburn. He had initials on his shingle—D.E. Milburn—but nobody knew what they meant. “The Lawrence boy was torn apart. This man was simply mauled to death.”
“Mauled? By an animal?”
The doctor looked at him.
“Humans don’t maul other humans, Sheriff,” he said. “Yes, he was killed by an animal. I’d say a big cat of some kind.”
“Doc,” Dekker said, “we ain’t had any indication that there’s a big cat in the area.”
“Well,” Doc said, pointing at the dead man, “you got some now. See those wounds? They’re from claws.”
“The Wendigo has claws.”
Doc held up his hand.
“I don’t want to hear anything about a Wendigo. I don’t believe in that mumbo-jumbo. When you’re around me just keep it to yourself.”
“Well, okay,” Dekker said, rubbing his jaw, “maybe a big cat would be enough reason for the mayor to remove the bounty—”
“Mayor Payne?” Doc snorted. “That idiot! You tell him there’s a cougar loose around here and he’ll just put out another bounty. I’ve already patched up three fool hunters who have been shot by other fool hunters, and this ain’t the end of it, believe me.”
Doc turned away from the body and looked at Albert, the undertaker.
“Albert, this place is still a pit.”
“Yes, Doc.”
“I’m warning you,” the physician went on. “You don’t get it cleaned up I’m going to have you shut down.”
“You need me for anything else, Sheriff?” he asked.
“No, Doc, that’s it. Thanks.”
Doc Milburn left and Albert cackled.
“That old geezer,” he said. “He shuts me down and bodies will pile up around here. He ain’t gonna shut me down.”
Dekker shook his head. One old geezer calling the other one an old geezer.
The Valley of the Wendigo Page 7
