The Valley of the Wendigo

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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eISBN : 978-0-515-14465-9

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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 am 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.”