The Valley of the Wendigo (10 page)

“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.

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 was 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.

“Bury him, Albert. Boot hill. No marking.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff.”

Dekker shook his head and left. If a Wendigo had not killed this man, it was sure a hell of a coincidence that a big cat would come around now.

One thing Clint noticed was that Dakota had great eyes. Great-looking eyes, sure, but also great eyesight. She spotted sign well before he did, and often had to point it out to him.

This time she didn't spot something on the ground—but something above them.

“There!” she said for a third time, pointing. “Come on, Clint, can't you see? It's Fiddler. He's climbing the rock face.”

“That's a long way off, Dakota,” he said. “How can you be sure it's Fiddler?”

“Because nobody else would be that darin',” she said, “or stupid. That old man is gonna kill himself.”

As they quickened their pace to reach him, Clint said, “He must think there's a cave up there.”

“There's caves all over,” she said. “He thinks the Wendigo is up there.”

“So the Wendigo can also scale a rock wall?” Clint asked. “This thing is getting more and more talented as we go along.”

Dakota said something that Clint didn't catch.

“What was that?”

“You probably don't want to hear this,” she said, “but Fiddler says they can probably . . . fly.”

“Fly,” Clint said. “As in . . . like a bird?”

“Yeah.”

“How the hell did he ever kill fourteen of them?” Clint wondered aloud.

The wall Fiddler was climbing was steep, without many opportunities for a good handhold and foothold at the same time. He'd had to attach his belt to his rifle and loop it over his neck, and the gun stuck in his belt was getting in the way. It was a dangerous ascent, for more reasons than one. If the Wendigo came for him now, he would be as good as dead. There was no way he could kill it while clinging to the rock wall. Also, there was always the possibility he'd lose his grip and fall. But even then he had confidence that his magic would keep him alive.

And just at that moment a jutting formation he grabbed onto broke away from the wall, crumbling in his hand, and it happened.

He fell.

“Oh, my God!” Dakota said. Clint saw. Fiddler had lost his grip on the wall and was plummeting his arms, windmilling as if he thought he could fly.

“Come on!” she exhorted, and started running.

When they reached the area, she looked around.

“He must've fallen here,” she said.

“Are you sure you got the right spot?” Clint asked.

“Yeah,” she said, looking up and shading her eyes. “He was climbing the wall here.”

“Well, let's look around,” Clint said. “He's got to be here someplace.”

There were all sorts of rock formations and some brush that could be hiding Fiddler's battered and broken body. They split up to look around. As Clint came around a particularly large rock, he saw Fiddler. The man was standing there, brushing himself off as if he'd just tripped over a rock—but he had fallen almost fifty feet!

“Fiddler?”

The Cree hunter looked up at Clint and smiled.

“Clumsy,” he said.

Eric Keller rode into Rosesu that afternoon, straight down Main Street, easy as you please. Dekker was standing outside in front of his office. When he saw Keller, he stepped into the street. Keller reined his horse in. He looked the same, a hard case with a granite jaw and some gray hair that made him look older than forty.

“Whataya want here, Keller?” Dekker asked.

“Why, Sheriff,” Keller said. “Come out to greet me all by yourself? Where's your deputy?”

“I ain't had a deputy since you killed the last one,” Dekker said. “Four months ago.”

“He called me out, Dekker,” Keller said. “If you didn't believe that, I'd be behind bars by now.”

“But I told you never to come back here.”

“I know,” Keller said, “and it was my intention to stay away—until I heard about this bounty.”

“You don't hunt game, Keller,” Dekker said with distaste, “you hunt men.”

“I hunt, period,” Keller said. “Are you tellin' me I can't go for this bounty?”

“Go ahead,” Dekker said. “The forest is swarming with amateurs with guns. I hope one of them takes your head off by accident.”

“Nice to see you, too, Troy,” Keller said, and rode on.

“Dakota!”

Clint called out and she came running. When she reached him, she gaped at Fiddler, who was still slapping rock dust from his clothing.

“Fiddler!” she exclaimed. “Goddamn it. Fiddler! But . . . but how?”

“I think she means . . . why aren't you dead?”

The old man looked at both of them, then smiled and touched the leather bag around his neck.

“This.”

“That's your medicine bag, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“And that saved you?” she asked.

“It slowed my fall.”

“So you did fall?” she asked. “We didn't imagine it?”

“Oh, no, I fell,” he said. “I landed very hard, too.” He stretched, put his hand to his lower back.

“But not hard enough to kill you,” Clint said.

Fiddler looked at Clint.

“I was certain Dakota would have told you.”

“That you can't die?”

“Oh, I can die,” Fiddler said. “Years from now I will die of old age, like most people.”

"But ...”

“But I cannot be killed.”

“And that's because of what's in your medicine bag?”

“Yes.”

Clint looked at Dakota, who looked up at the face of the wall.

“What were you doin' up there, Fiddler?”

“I believe there is a cave up there,” he said, “where the Wendigo rested last night.”

“Two hunters were killed last night in their camp,” Clint told him. “Torn to pieces.”

“Yes,” Fiddler said. “I heard the shots . . . and the scream.”

“So if the Wendigo made a kill last night, it would rest?” Clint asked.

“It would rest in any case.”

Now Clint looked up.

“There's got to be an easier way up there.”

“There probably is,” Fiddler said, “but it'll be dark soon. We should wait for daylight before we look for it.”

“And you should rest,” Dakota said.

“Yes,” Fiddler said, “you are probably right. We can make camp right here.”

“Right below the Wendigo's cave?” Clint asked.

"Why not?” Fiddler asked. “We are looking for it, aren't we?”

“Yes, but—”

“Don't worry,” Fiddler said. “The chances are slim that it would come back to the same place.”

“Then why did you want to get into it?” Clint asked.

“It is the last place the Wendigo was,” Fiddler said.

“It would help me to get inside.”

“And what if it stays somewhere else tonight?” Clint asked. “Then that would be the last place it stayed. Will you still want to get up there tomorrow morning?”

“Every little bit helps, Mr. Adams,” Fiddler said.

“If we're gonna make camp, we better get a fire going,” Dakota said.

Fiddler looked around, located his rifle lying on the ground. Then he continued looking.

“What's wrong?”

“My pistol fell from my belt.”

“I'll help you find it.”

“No,” he said, “you help Dakota. I will find it.”

“All right,” Clint said. “We'll get a fire going. Do you have any food?”

“Some beef jerky.”

“I do, too,” Clint said. “And water. That'll have to do.”

“It will do very well,” Fiddler assured him.

“What is it now?” Mayor Payne asked Dekker.

“Keller's in town.”

“You told him not to come back.”

“Apparently, he didn't listen.”

“Why's he here?”

“He says for the bounty.”

“He doesn't hunt animals.”