Read The Valley of the Wendigo Online
Authors: J. R. Roberts
The Valley of the Wendigo (6 page)
“Looks like sooner,” he told her. “He just walked in.” Sheriff Dekker crossed the room and approached their table.
“You folks mind if I join ya?” he asked.
“Have a seat, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Full breakfast or just coffee?”
“Coffee,” he said, pulling a chair out and sitting. “I had my breakfast already. Good morning, Miss Dakota.”
“It's just Dakota, Sheriff,” she said. “Nobody calls me Miss.”
“Pardon me, ma'am,” he said, “but a lady as pretty as you deserves some respectâif you don't mind me sayin' so.”
“No, Sheriff,” she said, “I don't mind at all.”
“Any word on who that young fellow I shot is, Sheriff?” Clint asked.
“Nothin',” Dekker said. “Had nothin' on him that would identify him, and the bartender didn't know who he was. Did say he thought he saw him sittin' with some fellers in the saloon.”
Clint snapped his fingers.
“That's where I saw him,” he said. “There were three of them sitting together, and they seemed real interested in me.”
“I wonder why all three wouldn't have tried for you, then?” Dekker asked. “They might have had a better chance.”
“Well, from what I saw of Dakota out there I think she and I could have handled them,” Clint said, “but apparently they sent their youngest and least experienced hand after us.”
“Us?” Dekker asked.
“Us?” Dakota echoed.
“Well,” Clint said, “of course, we're assuming they were after me, but . . .”
“Why would they be after Dakota?” Dekker asked.
“Yeah,” she said, “why me?”
“I didn't say they were. I just said we don't know for sure who the kid was shooting at.”
“I don't like the sound of that,” Dakota said. “I ain't done nothin' to nobody to make them wanna kill me.”
“Well, there is a bounty on the head of the Wendigo,” Clint said. “Maybe they thought with you out of the way they'd have a better chance.”
“Well, they'd better worry a little bit more about Jack Fiddler,” she said.
“That's a good point,” Clint said. “Dakota, do you know where he's camped?”
“Yeah, he told me last night.”
“Maybe after breakfast we'd better go and pay him a visit, see if he had any adventures during the night.”
“Good idea,” Dekker said. “Let me know what you find out.”
The waiter came with their breakfasts. Dekker decided to forgo the coffee and leave them to it.
FOURTEEN
Dakota told Clint where Jack Fiddler's camp was supposed to be. After breakfast they simply walked north of town until they came to it. Actually, they smelled the camp before they saw it. Coffee and beans.
As they entered the camp, Fiddler looked up at Dakota.
“I been waitin' for you,” he said. “Who's your friend?”
“Jack, this is Clint Adams.”
Fiddler looked at Clint. The Indian did look ancient, he had to admit.
“Why is the Gunsmith huntin' the Wendigo?”
“He isn't,” Clint said. “I'm just passing through. I didn't want to pass up the chance to meet Jack Fiddler.”
“You know me?”
“I've heard of you.”
“Hunker down,” he told them. “Drink coffee with me.”
They did as he asked and he passed them each a full cup. Clint tasted it.
“This is damn good,” he said. “I thought Indians didn't like coffee.”
“They don't,” Fiddler said. “I do.”
“Well, you make it damn good, too.”
Fiddler smiled, revealing more gaps than yellowed teeth.
“Somebody took a couple of shots at us last night, Jack,” Dakota said.
“I heard the shots. Sorry it was you. You killed him?”
“I did.”
“I might have,” she said. “But it's more likely Clint's shot got him.”
“Good,” Fiddler said. “Hunters like you and me, we don't kill men.”
“No, we don't,” Dakota said.
“Which one of you was he after?”
“We're not sure,” Clint said. “Most likely me, but if it was hunters looking to whittle at the competition, they might make a try at you. Did you hear anyone near your camp last night?”
“No.”
“Did you sleep?” Clint asked.
âYes, but Horse would have warned me.”
“Horse?” Clint asked. “The mare's name is Horse?”
Fiddler shrugged.
“Well,” Clint said, handing back the empty cup, “I just wanted to warn you.”
“Thank you.”
“You two probably want to talk.”
“You want another cup?”
“Sure,” Clint said.
Fiddler poured and handed it to him, then warmed up Dakota's and his own.
“When are you goin' out, Jack?” Dakota asked.
“This mornin',” Fiddler said. “I have to pick up my supplies, my packhorse, and then I'll start. Want to help an old man?” he asked Dakota.
“Like you need help.”
“You could pick up my supplies for me,” he said, “while I pick up the horse. Then I can get started sooner.”
“Sure, Fiddler,” Dakota said. “I'll help you.” Fiddler looked at Clint.
“Are you stayin' in town?”
“For a day or two,” Clint said. “I may not want to hunt the Wendigo, but I'd like to be around when you get him.” He looked at Dakota. “Or you.”
“You're supposed to get me in to see the mayor.” Dakota reminded Clint.
“Oh, yeah,” Clint said. “I should get on that while you help Fiddler.”
They all finished their coffee and stood up.
“I'll put out the fire and meet you back here,” Fiddler told Dakota.
“Fine.” She turned to Clint. “Where should I meet you after you talk to the sheriff?”
“How about the hotel?”
“Good. I'll see you there in . . . an hour?” She looked at the old Cree hunter.
“I will not need you for more than an hour,” Fiddler confirmed.
“All right, then,” Clint said. “At the hotel in an hour. Good luck with your hunt, Fiddler.”
Fiddler pointed a crooked index finger at Clint.
“You are truly not here to hunt the Wendigo?”
“Fiddler,” Clint said, “I am truly not here to hunt anyone or anything . . . especially not the Wendigo.”
Fiddler studied Clint for a long moment, then lowered his finger and said, “We will see.”
FIFTEEN
Clint found Sheriff Dekker in his office. The man was surprised to see Clint so soon.
“What brings you back here?”
“Dakota and I checked on Jack Fiddler,” Clint said. “He spent an uneventful night.”
“Well, that's good.”
“I have another matter to talk to you about, though.”
“What's that?”
“Dakota would like to talk to the mayor.”
“What for?”
“To make a case for herself being hired by the town to hunt the Wendigo.”
“The town hired Fiddler,” Dekker said. “In fact, she's better off going for the bounty. We're upping it today to a thousand dollars.”
“A thousand is just going to bring more amateurs to town,” Clint warned.
“I know that,” Dekker said, spreading his hands. “It's not my decision to make.”
“Well, I promised Dakota I'd try to get her in to see the mayor,” Clint said. “I tried.”
“Wait,” Dekker said as Clint headed for the door.
“What?”
“You've gotten pretty friendly with Dakota already, haven't you?” Dekker asked.
“What's that mean?”
“Hey, no offense,” Dekker said, holding his hands out. “All I meant was, the mayor would agree to see her if it included you.”
Clint turned to face the lawman.
“Okay, yeah, I did say I'd go with her.”
“Great,” Dekker said. “I'll set it up. How about noon?”
“That's fine,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
As Clint started to leave, Dekker stood up to intensify his point.
“He'll agree to hire you,” he said. “Even though Fiddler's already on the payroll.”
“He won't hire three people, though, will he?”
“Maybe not,” Sheriff Dekker said, “but I bet he'd hire two partners.”
“Partners.”
“Think it over.”
“Yeah,” Clint said unhappily, “I will.”
He left the office, already knowing he'd gotten himself roped into something . . . again.
Dakota was waiting for him in the lobby when he got to the hotel.
“Did you talk to the mayor?” she asked.
“I talked to the sheriff, who said the mayor will see us at noon,” he replied.
“Us? So you'll go with me?”
“Yes, I will.”
She looked like she was going to hug him, but drew back at the last minute. She'd lost some of her inhibitions in his room the night before, but they were still very much in evidence in the hotel lobby.
“That's great. What do we do until then?”
“What you'd normally do before you go hunting,” Clint said. “What would that be?”
“I'd clean my guns, make sure they're workin' the way they're supposed to. I don't wanna come face to face with a Wendigo only to have my gun misfire.”
“Well, then, get to it,” he said.
“What about you?”
“I can keep myself busy.”
She smiled and said, “We could keep each other busy.”
“That wouldn't get your guns clean, would it?”
She stuck her tongue out at him and said, “I'll meet you down here at two o'clock. We can have a drink before we go and see the mayor.”
“One drink,” Clint cautioned. “You don't want to be drunk when you're pleading your case.”
“Or our case.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if we went in as . . . partners?”
Just for a moment he wondered if she'd somehow been listening to his conversation with the sheriff.
“You wouldn't mind that?”
“I think together we'd be the perfect hunter,” she said. “Maybe better than Fiddler. My hunting skills and your ability with guns. We'd be unbeatable.”
“I didn't know it was a contest.”
“When there's money involved, it's always a contest.”
“Why don't we see how receptive the mayor is, first?”
She smiled and said, “Deal.”
SIXTEEN
After leaving Dakota, Clint went back to Jack Fiddler's camp, hoping to catch the old Cree before he left for his hunt. Luckily, the man was still loading his packhorse with supplies.
Clint entered the camp, knowing that Fiddler was aware of him there.
“You are back with somethin' on your mind,” Fiddler said.
“How do you know?”
“You have returned without Dakota,” Fiddler said. “So this must be about her.”
“It is.”
Fiddler turned to face Clint.
“Can you convince her not to hunt the Wendigo?”
“I doubt it.”
“So then you will go with her.”
“But I told you I would not hunt,” Clint pointed out.
Fiddler waved that away.
“I do not want her to be hurt,” he said. “With you along there is less chance of that.”
“So you don't mind?”
“You came seekin' my permission?” the Cree hunter asked.
“Not permission as much as . . . dispensation.”
“You have it,” Fiddler said.
“Thank you.”
“What else?”
“Is there something else?”
“Is there?”
Clint hesitated.
“You want to know about the Wendigo,” the Cree said.
“Yes.”
“You do not believe.”
“It's not that, but . . .”
“I have seen them,” Fiddler said. “I have seen what they have done. And I have killed them.”
“How?”
“With magic.”
“Not guns?”
“Not your guns,” Fiddler said. “Not Dakota's. To hunt the Wendigo with only guns is foolhardy.”
“So everyone else who hunts them is . . . suicidal?”
“As I said,” Fiddler corrected. “Foolhardy. Each does it for his or her own reason.”
“I think most of them are going to be doing it for the thousand dollars.”
“Thousand?”
“It goes up today.”
Fiddler just shook his head.
“I must go,” he said. “The sooner I kill it, the more lives will be spared.”
“Can't you give me any advice, Fiddler?” Clint asked. “I'm not after the money.”
“I know, my friend,” Fiddler said. “You are doin' it for the woman.”
“I'm doing it in the hopes of keeping the woman alive,” Clint said.
“Then take the advice I give you, and take it to heart,” Fiddler said.
“I will.”
“Keep her away,” Fiddler said. “Do not let her hunt, for the Wendigo will surely kill herâand you.”
“That's it?”
“That,” Jack Fiddler said, again showing Clint that crooked index finger, “is the best advice I can give you.”
“Then I'll try to take it to heart.”
Fiddler nodded, then shook his head as if he were thinking. “I know you will, but I also know you will not do what I say.”
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