The Valley of the Wendigo (13 page)

“If the fire don't attract them,” Dakota said, “the smell will.”

“The cat, maybe,” Clint said.

“It will attract the Wendigo,” Fiddler said. “When it comes, you must both stay back, understand? The battle will rage between the creature and me.”

“And the cat?”

“It's open season on the cat,” Fiddler said. “You can take your best shot.”

“And if our best shot ain't good enough?” Dakota asked. “If the damned thing is magic?”

“Then I will kill it.”

“Sounds to me like you could end up doing all the work, Fiddler,” Clint said.

“I am used to doin' all the work, my friend.”

Keller and Dekker found Fiddler's horses at the entrance to the canyon. The cat's trail led right inside.

“Ever been in there?” Keller asked.

“No.”

“That where you think this Win-dee-go is?”

“That's where they say it goes after it's killed.”

“These are Fiddler's animals?”

“Yep.”

“Then he's in there.”

“Probably.”

“And who else?”

“Clint Adams and a girl called Dakota.”

“I know Dakota,” Keller said. “I've met her. And I know of Fiddler.”

“And of the Gunsmith.”

“Oh, yeah,” Keller said. “I know him.” He looked up. “Gettin' dark. Why don't we camp here and go in in the mornin'?”

“The Wendigo kills at night.”

“Then maybe we'll catch it goin' in or comin' out.”

“Sounds like as good a plan as any,” Dekker said.

The dismounted, unsaddled their horses, and made a fire. Over coffee and beans Keller asked, “I wonder why Fiddler went in on foot.”

“Maybe the way gets too narrow for the horses,” Dekker said.

“That'd be crap,” Keller said. “Any other way in?”

“I know of one,” Dekker said.

“And you've never used it?”

“No.”

“Where is it?”

“Not far,” Dekker said. “It's a tunnel.”

“Too narrow for the horses?”

“I've heard not.”

“So you know men who have been in there?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“One,” Dekker said.

“One?”

“That's all that's ever been in and come out again,” Dekker told him.

“And who was that?”

“Doesn't matter,” Dekker said. “He's dead now.”

Keller stared across the fire at Dekker.

“Tell me somethin,' Dekker.”

“What?”

“What are you afraid of? I know you ain't afraid of me. You ain't afraid of some mountain lion.”

“No.”

“You afraid of the Win-dee-go?”

“I'm not a fool,” Dekker said. “Of course I'm afraid.”

“But it's just a story,” Keller said. “Whatever is killin' around here, there's no magic attached to it. You'll see. All it will take is a bullet.”

“I hope you're right.”

“A bullet for the cat,” Keller said, “a bullet for the Win-dee-go, and a bullet for the Gunsmith.”

“The Gunsmith,” Dekker said. “Now there's somebody I'd be afraid of if I were you.”

“There's a difference between fear and caution, Dekker,” Keller said. “I'll be cautious about all three, but I'm not afraid of any of them.”

“Makes you a better man than me, I guess.”

Dekker picked up the coffeepot. Keller held out his cup and Dekker filled it, then his own.

“No,” Keller said, regarding the man over his cup, “not a better man, Dekker, just . . . different.”

The valley was pitch-black all around them. The fire was small, so the circle of light from the flame was small as well.

“If it comes,” Dakota said, “it'll come out of the dark fast.”

“That's the story that's being told,” Clint said. “It comes fast and before you know it you're ripped to shreds, like the Lawrence boy.”

“None of them were ready,” Fiddler said. “We are ready. I am ready.”

Suddenly, they heard a sound from the darkness—a cry. And then again.

“That's the cat,” Dakota said.

Clint nodded. He knew the sound made by a hungry cat.

“He won't come near the fire,” he said.

“It shouldn't come near the fire,” Dakota said.

“That is right,” Fiddler said, “but then it should also not even be in this valley.”

The cat cried out again.

Closer.

Clint stood up.

“It's circling us,” Dakota told him. “Checkin' us out.”

“That is the difference between the cat and the Wendigo,” Fiddler said. “The cat will not come into camp.”

“Well,” Clint said, “maybe one of us should go out and get it.”

Dakota stood up.

“I'll go,” she said. “This is what I do.”

“No, I'll go,” Clint said.

Fiddler stood up, put his hand on Clint's arm.

“Let her go.”

Dakota picked up her rifle, smiled at both men, and then melted into the darkness.

“Now,” Fiddler said, taking his hand off Clint's arm, “now you go.”

Clint nodded, picked up his rifle, and went after Dakota.

Alone by the fire Fiddler kicked dirt on it, extinguishing it. It became completely dark on the floor of the valley. There was only a sliver of moon, but soon his eyes—along with Clint's and Dakota's—would be used to the darkness.

Fiddler hunkered down to wait.

Clint could hear the cat prowling around and growling at the same time. He couldn't hear Dakota, though. She was that good. He was aware that Fiddler had put out the fire. The Cree hunter was now waiting in the dark for the Wendigo.

They were all in the dark.

Dakota could hear the cat ahead of her, and someone behind her—probably Clint. Hopefully, not the Wendigo.

She watched for the cat's eyes. They would pick up the light from even the sliver of a moon that was above them, and then she'd have it.

She was crouched, rifle gripped tightly in her hands. Once upon a time she used to grip her weapon loosely as a way to force herself to relax, but years ago her prey—a wolf—had hit her from behind, and her rifle had gone flying from her hands. She'd had to kill it with a knife, not without paying the price. Since then she made sure she gripped her weapon tightly.

It was about as dark as Clint had ever experienced. Some clouds had moved and blocked the slice of moon in the sky, and now there was no light at all. Clint knew the cat's eyes could be seen in the dark, so he was on the lookout for them. He'd fire as soon as he saw those eyes. There was no danger that he'd be shooting at Dakota or Fiddler by mistake.

He couldn't hear the cat anymore, but suddenly he heard a sound behind him, from the direction of the camp.

It chilled his blood because he had never heard a sound like that before—from man nor beast.

The sound of a Wendigo.

Fiddler heard it, but even before that he smelled the foul stench of it.

He turned, took his medicine bag in his left hand, and waited.

Clint wasn't sure what to do. Go forward to help Dakota with the cat? Or back to help Fiddler with the Wendigo? The old Cree had been saying right from the beginning, he had to be alone to kill it. And hadn't Clint just finished telling Dakota he thought the old man knew what he was doing?

Clint moved forward.

Thank God cats had claws
, Dakota thought.

Off to her left she heard them,
tap-tap-tapping
on whatever stone the cat was walking on. Then they were gone . . . and there again.

And she thought she could hear the big cat breathing. Her sen ses were that attuned when she was hunting.

Come on
, she thought,
come on
. . . her eyes were completely attuned to the darkness now. She thought she could see something moving just ahead of her. And then there they were, the eyes, glowing in the dark, coming toward her . . .

She raised the rifle and fired.

Clint was almost behind Dakota when she fired her rifle. The muzzle flash lit up the night and he could see the cat in flight, leaping at her. Even as her bullet struck the cat, it kept coming. Clint raised his rifle and fired, catching the cat in midair. It continued its forward motion and crashed into Dakota, taking her down. Clint dropped his rifle, drew his gun, and fired, again and again, lighting up the scene so that he could see where to put each shot. The cat never made a sound, not even with the impact of each shot striking it.

Dakota scrambled out from beneath the cat just as Clint fished a match out of his pocket and struck it. From the light cast by the tiny flame, they could see the cat lying on its side, its breathing labored.

“Jesus,” she said. “We hit it—what—five or six times and it's still breathing.”

Clint walked to it and delivered one final shot to the head.

“Not anymore,” he said.

They heard a blood-curdling scream from behind them. As they turned, Clint scooped up his rifle and they ran for the camp.

The Wendigo came into camp, straight at Fiddler, yellow eyes glazing. Its long teeth were dripping saliva as it screamed, but the Cree hunter stood his ground. When the creature was close enough for him to feel its hot, fetid breath on him, for him to smell its death stench body odor, he knew he had it.

When Clint and Dakota reached the dark camp, they stopped to listen.

Nothing.

“I'm going to relight the fire,” Clint said.

“Why did he put it out?” Dakota complained.

Clint used a couple of matches to get the fire going again, and as the circle of light spread out, he expected to see disembodied limbs and a lot of blood. Instead, they saw nothing.

Dakota walked around, looking at the ground.

“There's not even a sign of a struggle here, Clint,” she said, turning around and around. “Look at it.”

“I'm looking.”

“We heard the scream,” Dakota said. “It was the Wendigo. It wasn't a human scream.”

He said nothing.

“Besides, Fiddler would never scream.”

“You've told me that before.”

“I stand by it,” she said. “The Wendigo screamed . . . but where is it? And where's Fiddler? Look, no rifle, no gun, no knife. It's as if he just disappeared.”

Clint was looking around, saw everything for himself that Dakota was talking about.

“We killed the cat,” she said. “Did he kill the Wendigo? Or did it kill him and drag him off?”

“No drag marks.”

“Then it carried him off.”

“There's no blood.”

“Then it took him alive.”

“You know him,” Clint said. “Would he let the Wendigo take him alive?”

“No.”

She looked around, then spread her arms and dropped them to her sides uselessly.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

He took his gun out of his holster and said, “Reload.”

At first light they searched the area again. Still no sign of a struggle or of blood. Fiddler had disappeared.

“Did he walk off?” Dakota asked. She looked tired, having not slept a wink all night, waiting for the Wendigo to swoop in on them. “Would he do that?”

“It was his idea to douse the fire,” Clint pointed out. “Maybe that was so he could sneak off.”

“No,” Dakota finally decided, “he wouldn't. And remember that . . . shriek? That was the Wendigo.”

“I'm going to check on that cat.”

Clint walked to where they'd left the body of the cat. There was some blood, but the cat was gone. He returned to camp and told Dakota.

“You shot it in the head,” she said. “I saw you.”

“I know.”

“What do we do now?”

“I'll tell you what I want to do,” Clint said.

“What's that?”

“I want to get out of this valley.”

She looked around helplessly, then said, “Yeah, okay, let's get out of here.”

They were riding back to where they had met up with Fiddler so they could take the same path back up and out of the valley when they spotted two riders coming toward them.

“Who the hell—” Dakota said.

Clint saw the sunlight reflect off a badge on a man's shirt.

“That's the sheriff.”

“Who's that with him?”

“We'll find out.”

As the riders approached, Clint and Dakota reined in. Sheriff Dekker waved to them.

“Glad to see the two of you alive,” he said.

“Where's Fiddler?”

“Gone,” Clint said.

“Gone . . . where?”

“We don't know,” Dakota said. “Last night Clint and I got the cat. Fiddler was in camp, and then he wasn't. And we heard the . . . the shriek of the Wendigo.”

“Shriek?” the other man asked.

“This is Keller,” Dekker said, with no further explanation.

“The Wendigo,” Dakota said. “It had to be.”

“So Fiddler's gone and so is the Wendigo?” Dekker asked.

“And the cat?” Keller asked.

“Yes,” Clint said.

“Where are you goin' now?” Dekker asked.

“We want to get out of this valley,” Dakota said. “It's not . . . right in here.”