The Valley of the Wendigo (7 page)

When Clint met Dakota in the hotel lobby, they walked over to the saloon together and ordered a beer each.

“Before we go see the mayor, I have to talk to you about something.”

“What?”

“What would you think of not hunting the Wendigo?”

“Why would I do that?”

“To stay alive.”

“I'm not afraid, Clint.”

“I know you're not.”

“Then why would I not go?”

“I had a talk with Fiddler this morning,” he admitted. “He seems to think he's the only one who can kill it.”

“My bullets are as good as his.”

"He says you need more than bullets,” Clint replied. "You need magic.”

“Clint,” Dakota said, “you can't believe everything Jack Fiddler tells you. He'd old.”

“No way I can talk you out of this?”

“I don't think so. There's always the money to think about.”

“Oh, yeah, the money.” He told her what the sheriff had said, that she might be better off going for the bounty.

“Well, like you said,” she answered, “let's see what the mayor has to say.”

“Okay,” he said, “have it your way.”

She touched his arm.

“I know you're not scared for yourself, so you're scared for me. That's nice, but I'm gonna do this— with or without you.”

“I get it,” he said. “Let's go see Hizzoner.”

Sheriff Dekker was waiting in front of City Hall.

“Adams, Dakota,” he said. “The mayor's waitin'.”

“Let's go,” Dakota said.

They followed the lawman into the building and to the mayor's office.

“Mayor Payne, this is Clint Adams, this is Dakota.” Dekker gestured.

“Adams, this is a pleasure.” The mayor, a big, florid-faced man, extended his hand and Clint shook it. “Miss Dakota.”

“Just Dakota.”

“I must say,” he commented, “you're not quite what I expected.”

“Oh,” Dakota said. “Well, Clint made me take a bath.”

“I see.” The mayor wasn't quite sure if that was a joke or not. “Please, both of you sit.”

They each took a chair. The sheriff stood in a corner with his arms folded.

“I understand you want the town to hire you to hunt this . . . this Wendigo thing.”

“Well—”

“Clint and I think that together we can kill it faster than anyone else.”

“Well, we certainly want this taken care of quickly,” the mayor said, “but we've already hired Jack Fiddler. He has a reputation for killing these . . . things.”

“Well, that's true, but Jack's . . . been at it for a while.”

“Is that your way of saying he's getting old?” Payne asked Dakota.

“I'm just sayin' . . .” She trailed off and looked at Clint.

“Dakota is just saying that maybe you can use an alternative,” he offered.

“Yeah,” she said, “that's all I was sayin'.”

“Well,” Payne said, “I can tell you I wouldn't mind having the Gunsmith—and Dakota—hunting this thing.”

“Then you'll do it?” Dakota asked.

“I tell you what,” Payne said, “let's make a deal. If you two kill the Wendigo, we'll give you the bounty, and the town will match it. How's that? A thousand each?”

“I'm not interested in the money,” Clint said. “All the money will go to Dakota.”

“Whatever you want to do with the money, that's your business,” Payne said. “Is it a deal?”

Clint looked at Dakota, leaving it to her.

“It's a deal, Mr. Mayor.”

“The sheriff can tell you where this thing struck last,” the mayor said, standing up. “I wish you both luck.”

They all shook hands and then they followed Sheriff Dekker out.

“Sheriff, did Fiddler get to look at the dead man and question the survivor?” Dakota asked.

“He did it last night.”

“Can we do it today?” Clint asked.

“I don't see why not?” Dekker said. “I'll take you now, and fill you in on the way.”

Two brothers had been out hunting the Wendigo after the creature had been blamed for three deaths already.

“Larry and Billy Lawrence,” Dekker said. “Twenty-something, both of them. About a year apart. Fancied themselves crack shots because they could shoot jackrabbits. The boys went out a few days ago, but only Larry came back. He got me, and we went out to get his brother's body.”

“How was he killed?” Clint asked.

“I'll let Larry tell you the same story he told me,” Dekker said, “and Fiddler.”

“First, let's see the body,” Dakota said.

“It's been at the undertaker's for days,” Dekker said. “Gettin' kinda ripe.”

“We'll take a look at it,” Clint said, “and then the undertaker can bury it.”

Dekker led them to the undertaker's office.

“Albert has been the undertaker here for over twenty years,” Dekker said.

“Closer to thirty,” Albert said. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dakota. And you, Mr. Adams. You've certainly provided enough work for me and my kind over the years.”

“Don't believe everything you hear, Albert.”

“Well, you gave me some work yesterday.”

“They're more interested in work you've still got to do, Albert,” Dekker said. “They want to see Billy Lawrence's body.”

“When will I be able to bury that poor boy?” Albert asked.

“Tomorrow,” Dekker said, “you can bury him tomorrow. Now show them the body.”

“Come with me.”

“I'll wait here,” Dekker said. “I've seen it too many times.”

Clint and Dakota followed Albert to a room in the back. As they got closer, the smell got stronger. Clint recognized the smell of death. Dakota gagged for a moment when they reached the door. The odor didn't seem to bother the undertaker.

“Will you be all right?” Clint asked her.

“Yeah, I'll be okay,” she said. “Let's go.”

There was no door, only a curtain. Albert pushed it aside and they entered. The undertaker walked to a body on a table, covered by a sheet. He drew the sheet back.

“Take it off completely,” Dakota said.

It was barely a body. It had been torn to shreds. An arm and a leg had been torn off and were lying on the table with it. Great chunks had been taken out of the body. If the legend of the Wendigo was true, the young man had been eaten.

“Enough?” Clint asked.

“Yeah,” Dakota said.

“Cover it up,” Clint said, “and get the poor bastard buried as soon as possible.”

“His brother can't afford—”

“I'll pay for it,” Clint said. “Give him a good coffin.”

He took Dakota's arm and led her out of the room. “I've never seen anything like that,” she said when they reached Dekker.

“Neither have I,” Dekker said.

“That makes three of us,” Clint said. “Let's get some air.”

Outside they started walking, Dekker guiding them to see the other Lawrence brother.

“Ever see a bear do that, Dakota?” Dekker asked.

“No, never.”

“Do you believe in the Wendigo?” Dekker asked her.

“I never really did . . . until now.”

“Clint?”

“I reserve my opinion,” Clint said.

“But do you know of an animal that's ever done that?” Dekker asked. “A big cat, maybe?”

“No,” Clint said. “Never.”

“So then maybe old Fiddler is right,” Dekker said. “There's a Wendigo, and he can kill it.”

“I guess we'll find out.”

Sheriff Dekker took them to a small shack outside of town to the south.

“The Lawrence boys lived here with their parents. They both died years ago. Drunks, both of them.”

“How's Larry doing?” Clint asked.

“You'll see,” Dekker said as they reached the door. “He's scared, won't come out of the shack for any reason. I tried—well, you'll see.”

Dekker knocked, and they heard a stifled scream from inside.

Dekker opened the door and the three of them went in. They found Larry Lawrence cowering on a cot. From the smell, they could tell the knock on the door had caused the man to pee his pants. They couldn't be certain because he had the sheet pulled up over him.

“Larry, it's Sheriff Dekker. It's okay. You're safe.”

“Sh-sheriff?” Lawrence looked up at the man.

“I brought some people to see you,” Dekker said. “Clint Adams and Dakota.”

Lawrence looked up at them with frightened eyes. He had part of the sheet in his mouth.

“They're gonna kill the Wendigo for you, Larry.”

Lawrence released the sheet from his mouth and said, “I thought Fiddler was gonna kill it.”

“He is,” Dekker said. “They're all gonna kill it. What they need from you is to tell them what you saw.”

“I saw—I saw that thing kill my brother,” the boy said. “He tore him apart, he . . . it ate parts of him. That's what I saw! That's what I see every time I close my eyes.”

“Larry,” Clint said, “what does the Wendigo look like?”

“Huge,” Lawrence said, “long teeth, a head like a skull. Claws. It was horrible.”

Clint looked at Dakota, who shrugged

“And yellow eyes,” Lawrence said. “Don't forget it has yellow eyes. They glow in the dark!”

“Where did you and your brother—”

“I can tell you that,” Dekker said. “Let's leave Larry alone now. He's got to change his trousers.”

“Kill it,” Larry Lawrence yelled at them from his bed. “Kill it, kill it, kill it.”

“They'll kill it, Larry,” Dekker said. “You change your trousers, huh?”

They could still hear him shouting “Kill it!” when they got outside.

Blaine and Largent were mounting their horses in front of the livery stable.

“So what about Fiddler?” Largent asked. “And Adams and the girl?”

“Who knows?” Blaine said. “There's gonna be a lot of amateurs out there. Who knows how many of them will shoot at anything that moves?”

Largent laughed and the two rode out of town to begin their hunt.

Clint and Dakota walked back to the sheriff's office with Dekker.

“They were in a canyon about twenty miles out of town, due north,” the lawman said. “Larry said the Wendigo herded them into it and then attacked. Larry was lucky to escape while the thing was killing his brother.”

“How accurate do you think he is in what he says he saw?” Clint asked.

“I think he's very accurate,” Dekker said. “Unfortunately, I think he's been describing what he sees in his dreams. Especially that stuff about the glowing yellow eyes.”

“I see.”

“When will you be leavin'?”

“Now,” Clint said. “We're going to saddle our horses and get going.”

“Well, good luck,” Dekker said. “I have to admit I don't care if you kill it or Fiddler does—as long as somebody gets the job done.”

“We'll keep that in mind,” Clint said. “Thanks for your help.”

They turned and walked away from Sheriff Dekker.

“What about supplies?” Dakota asked.

“We'll saddle our horses and ride over to the general store,” Clint said. “We'll travel light, whatever we can carry in our saddlebags. That okay with you, Dakota?”

“That's fine,” she said. “All I usually need is some beef jerky and my guns.”

“And some coffee,” Clint said. “Let's not forget coffee.”

When they had their saddlebags packed, they mounted their horses in front of the store.

“Did you believe the mayor?” she asked him.

“About what?”

“About doubling the bounty if we kill the Wendigo.”

“You didn't?”

She blew air out of her mouth.

“Funny,” Clint said, “I thought you believed him.”

“He's a man, isn't he?” she asked.

“Then why hunt?” Clint asked.

“Because like Fiddler, it's not about the money,” she said.

“Then why try to make a deal?”

“Because I know I need money to keep going,” she said.

“Don't we all?”

As soon as they cleared town, Clint began to feel something in the air. He had hunted bears, cats, and men in the past, but never a mythical creature. Perhaps bears or cats that had grown to mythical proportions, but never what he considered to actually be a creature of myth.

And if he really believed it was only a myth, then what was he feeling? Surely there was no danger from a creature that did not exist? But something had torn apart Billy Lawrence. And Jack Fiddler claimed to have already killed Wendigos before—with bullets and magic.

“You're quiet,” Dakota said.

“We're hunting,” he said. “We're supposed to be quiet.”

“Not really,” she said. “Right now I'm only interested in what I see on the ground.”

“And what's that?”

“Dismount,” she said. “I'll show you.”

They dismounted. Clint dropped Eclipse's reins to the ground. Dakota secured her mount to a nearby bush. That would keep the animal from wandering off, but in case of danger, the horse would be able to pull free.