The Valley of the Wendigo (3 page)

Dakota shrugged and said, “I thought maybe I could get more if I was hired private.”

“Well, if what you're tellin' me about Fiddler is true,” Dekker said, “then maybe we have hired the right man.”

“So then you ain't gonna keep tryin' ta hire this Gunsmith fella?” she asked.

“Clint,” he said.

“Huh?” She looked at him.

“You can call me Clint, Dakota.”

She turned her head back to Dekker.

“You ain't gonna keep tryin' ta hire Clint, neither?” she asked.

“I can't hire anybody,” he said. “I'm just the sheriff.”

“Who should I be talkin' ta, then?” she asked.

“The mayor, I guess,” Dekker said. He stood up, grabbed his mug, and drank half of it. “I gotta make my rounds. Clint, think it over.”

“I'll think it over, too,” Dakota said.

“There's nothin' for you to think—oh, forget it.”

Dekker stalked out.

“You got under his skin,” Clint said.

“That what you were lookin' all funny about?” she asked.

“Amused,” Clint said. “I was lookin' amused.”

“A-mused,” she repeated, saying it like she'd never said it before. “That mean funny?”

“That means I found what you were doing to the sheriff funny, yes.”

“Talk ta the mayor.” Dakota shook her head. “I think he was funnin' me. Why would the mayor of a town talk to me?”

“Maybe because he wants this thing killed,” Clint said.

“He's already got Fiddler, he ain't about ta pay me, too.”

“He might, if you approach him right.”

“You sayin' you know how ta approach him right?”

“I might be saying that.”

She leaned her elbows on the table.

“When will ya know if that's what yer sayin'?”

“Maybe,” he replied, “after you take a bath.”

Fiddler entered the livery stable.

“I need a packhorse.”

Ed Stack looked Fiddler up and down.

“You that Indian feller they hired ta kill that Windy-go?”

“Wendigo,” Fiddler said. “Yes.”

“Hellfire, man, yer as old as me.”

Fiddler smiled for the first time since he rode into town.

“Probably older,” he said.

“Kin you even sit a horse?”

“For hours,” Fiddler said.

Stack looked him up and down again.

“Yeah, maybe ya can at that,” Stack said. “Well, come on, I got orders ta give you what you want. Town's supposed ta pay me back but it prolly ain't never gonna happen.”

Fiddler didn't feel bad about that. Whenever he was hired by someone—a person, a group, or a town—the details of how he got outfitted and paid were up to them. He didn't fret about that sort of thing, especially when it came to town politics.

He followed the liveryman out the back door to the corral.

“Why the hell would I wanna take a bath?” Dakota asked.

“So I could see the woman underneath all the dirt.” Dakota touched her hair before she caught herself and lowered her hand.

“Well, of course, I was gonna take a bath,” she said. “First I wanted ta get a drink to cut the dust, then a room, and then a bath.” She hesitated, then added, “I know I'm dirty, Mr. Gunsmith.”

“Clint,” he said, “just Clint.”

“Yeah, okay, Clint,” she said. “So yer sayin' you'll help me with the mayor after I take a bath?”

“I don't know the mayor,” Clint said, “but if they're looking to hire me, I can probably get in to see him. I can put a good word in for you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I don't want to hunt for this thing,” he said.

“You scared?”

“I've hunted animals before,” he said. “When they kill, they usually kill to survive—or because they're cornered.”

“That's true enough.”

“I don't know the whole story with this thing,” he said. “And I didn't come here looking for a job hunting a crazed animal. You did, and you look like you've done it before.”

“I have.”

“What about Fiddler?” ”

“What about him?”

“How's he going to feel about you trying to take his job?” he asked.

“Fiddler knows it's open season on . . . on whatever's out there. He'll understand.”

“Do you think it's a Wendigo?”

“Beats me.”

“Have you ever seen a Wendigo?”

“I haven't,” she said. “But Fiddler's seen 'em, and killed 'em.”

“So you believe in these creatures?”

“I believe there's somethin' out there that deserves killin',” she said, “and it has a price on its head. That's all I gotta know.”

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.”

She stared at him, playing with her half-f beer mug.

“Which of these hotels has got baths?” she asked.

“I'm in the Northwood Hotel,” he said. “I believe they have facilities.”

“Yeah,” she said, “okay.” She finished her beer, slammed the empty mug down on the chair. “Gotta take care of my horse first.”

“I'm not in a hurry,” he said. “I don't think anybody's going out after this thing until tomorrow.”

“We'll,” she said, “I'll see ya after I take care of my animal, get a room, and, uh, take a bath.”

“I'll be right here,” he assured her.

He watched her walk out, and realized that from behind—wearing a man's shirt and trousers—she cut an impressive figure. He was very interested to see what the bath was going to reveal underneath all that grime.

Fiddler picked out his packhorse. To the surprise of the liveryman—who told Fiddler just to call him 'ol Jed— the Cree did not pick out one of the better, more expensive horses. He took a ten-year-old nag that stack was thinking about gettin' rid of.

“Why that one?” Stack asked Fiddler. “It'll likely get ya where yer goin', but it won't get ya back.”

“I am hunting a Wendigo,” Fiddler said. “I do not expect this horse to survive.”

“Ya mean ya expect it to get eaten?”

“I hope it does.”

“Oh, I get it,” Stack said. “Yer usin' it as a pack animal, but yer also usin' it fer bait.”

“I will pick it up in the morning,” Fiddler said.

“Sure thing,” Stack said. “I'm here at first light, anyway.”

Fiddler nodded and left the livery. His next stop— what was to be his first, but was now his last—was the sheriff's office.

Dakota was on her way to the livery, walking her horse, when she saw Fiddler coming toward her.

They stopped in the middle of the street to talk.

“Hey, Fiddler.”

The old Cree did not look surprised to see her.

“Dakota,” he said, nodding.

“Not surprised?”

“No,” he said. “I would have been surprised if you had not come.”

“Where ya off to?”

“The sheriff's office,” Fiddler said, “although I do not think the man means to be very cooperative.”

“I don't think so either,” she said. “He was just in the saloon tryin' to talk Clint Adams into goin' huntin'.”

“Clint Adams?” Fiddler said. “He does not hunt.”

“For the right amount of money, anybody hunts, Fiddler,” she said, “but so far Adams ain't bitin'.”

“Are you goin' out alone?” Fiddler asked her.

“Unless you wanna take me with you.”

“I hunt alone,” he said. “You know that.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “Then I guess I'll be goin' out alone.”

“You should not hunt the Wendigo, Dakota,” Fiddler said. “You are not experienced.”

“I'm an experienced hunter, Jack,” she said. “You know that.”

“But you have not hunted the Wendigo.”

“Can it be killed?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then I can hunt it, and I can kill it. I need the money, Jack,” she said.

“I understand.”

“I gotta take care of my horse and get me a room,” she said. “You camped out?”

“North of town.”

“I'll come have some coffee with you.”

“I would like that.”

The two friendly competitors continued on their way.

Fiddler entered the sheriff's office, found the man sitting behind his desk.

“There ya are,” Dekker said. “Thought ya forgot about me.”

“I stopped in earlier, but you were not here.”

“Musta been makin' my rounds. You get the supplies you needed from Styles?”

“Yes, and a packhorse from the livery. Now I need to pick up some ammunition from the gun shop, and perhaps another weapon,” Fiddler explained.

“What can I do for ya, then?”

Fiddler gave it some thought.

“I think all I require of you is to stop Dakota from trying to hunt the Wendigo.”

“Now how can I do that?” Dekker said. “That lady's got as much right to try for the bounty as anyone.”

“Remove the bounty,” Fiddler said. “Now that I am here, you do not need a bunch of amateur hunters out there, perhaps shooting each other.”

“You're probably right about that, but she don't seem like no amateur.”

“When it comes to this, she is.”

“Far as this beast is concerned, you think you're the only one who ain't an amateur, ain't that right?”

“My ancestors hunted it, and I hunt it.”

“I'll talk to the mayor about takin' off the bounty,” Dekker said. “You don't need the amateurs out there shootin' at you. That's about all I can do, though.”

“Very well,” Fiddler said. “I will accept whatever help you offer.”

“You get settled in camp?”

“Yes.”

“Didn't happen to see that gal, did ya?”

“I did. We talked.”

“Is she any good?”

“She is an excellent hunter.”

“For a woman?”

“For anyone.”

“Why not take her out there to help you?”

“I hunt alone.”

“Yeah, you said that before.”

“Thank you for your time, Sheriff.”

“That's my job,” Dekker said, “to give folks my time.”

As the Cree turned to leave, Dekker spoke. “Hey, Fiddler?”

“Yes?”

“When you say you don't want amateurs out there shootin' at each other, and you, that include me?”

Fiddler just stared at the sheriff for a few moments, then turned and left the office.

Dakota gingerly lifted one foot and set it in the tub. The water was hot, and it took a few moments before the other foot followed. Once she was in the tub, she lowered her big butt into the water until she was finally sitting down.

She hadn't had a bath in a month of Sundays and she had to admit the hot water felt good on her skin. She grabbed the soap and began to lather herself up, and as she did her thoughts drifted to Clint Adams. What was it about the man that every time he looked at her she tingled between her legs? She hadn't been with a man in a while, maybe that was it. In fact, she was thirty-six and hadn't been with many men in her life. Toby Mathers had popped her cherry when she was fourteen, and they'd done it every Saturday for a couple of months after that. But when his folks moved him away, she didn't do it with anybody else for a couple of years, and then there was her uncle when she was sixteen. He did her in the barn a couple of times a week for about a month before he moved on. She liked it well enough, but she doubted either one of them had her liking in mind. They pretty much rutted away until they were done, and then he rolled off her.

In fact, that was pretty much her experience with men from that point on. Never really met one who didn't fuck like his ass was on fire and he had to get out of there.

She wondered if Clint Adams would be any different. While she thought about him, she soaped her legs, her thighs, and then, oh Lord, she was soaping her twitchit kinda hard, getting it nice and clean and tingly until suddenly she spasmed and had to grab both sides of the tub for support.

When she caught her breath, she thought that was the most pleasure she'd ever had with a man, let alone from just thinking about one.

After Dakota left, Clint went back to the bar and got himself a fresh beer. There were some poker games starting around the room, but he'd had too many beers to take part in them. He hated to gamble when he was drunk.

“Who—or what—the hell was that?” the bartender asked.

“That was a woman.”

“Really? You couldn't tell by me.”

“Oh, I think there was a woman there, all right, under all the dirt.”

“What about the smell?”

“That'll come off in the bath, like the dirt,” Clint said. “You'll see.”

“You convinced her to take a bath?”

“I'm a very persuasive man.”

“You must be.”

“For instance,” he went on, “I'm going to convince you to give me a beer on the house.”

The bartender grinned and said, “Coming up.”

In another corner of the saloon three men sat and watched Clint Adams at the bar.

“You sure that's the Gunsmith?” Eddie Largent asked.

“Big as life,” Denny Blaine said. “I seen him in Denver, once.”