The Valley of the Wendigo (8 page)

“Over here,” she said. “See that?”

Clint looked at the ground.

“See what?”

“Not the hard ground,” she said, “there.” She pointed to some shrubs that had been tramped down. “We're in the northern hardwood forest. That chokecherry. See how much of it is mashed down?”

“Yes.”

“Come over here.”

She took him to some chokecherry shrubs and said, “Step on that.”

He did and then stepped back.

“See how much of it you tramped down? Now compare.”

He looked back at the original chokecherry she'd shown him.

“About twice as much, maybe more.”

“Right,” she said. “Something with a big foot stepped right there.”

“That was done with one step?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He stared at it.

“A bear?”

“Let me give you a lesson in bears,” she said. “Around here you mostly see black bears. The can grow as large as seven feet in height, and weigh about five hundred pounds. The thing that made that footprint has to be ten feet tall.”

“A bear can't grow to ten feet?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I've never seen a black bear that big. A Kodiak, maybe. I've seen ten-foot Kodiaks that weigh up to fifteen hundred pounds, but you don't see them around here. They pretty much stick to Kodiak island.”

“What about a grizzly?”

“They do grow larger than the other kinds of bears, but you see them mostly from the high plains to the Pacific, not up here. Also, do you know what bears eat?”

“Not people?”

“Right,” she said. “They eat bark and berries—all kinds of fruit—and insects. Not people.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “so it's not a bear, unless it's a really strange one.”

Dakota sighed.

“You've got to stop thinkin' about bears, Clint. And cats don't grow this big. They average about a hundred and sixty pounds, and they sure don't have paws this big.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “so I guess that leaves a Wendigo.”

“Yeah,” she said, “a Wendigo.”

“Is it possible,” he asked, “that the Wendigo is a living creature rather than some sort of magic myth?”

“I hope so,” she said. “I'm hopin' for somethin' we can kill with bullets. If we need magic to kill it, we're gonna be shit out of luck.”

They continued to ride, with Dakota taking the lead. She kept her head down, watching the ground for sign, so Clint kept his head up, watching their backs, watching for other animals or other hunters. He didn't want them getting accidentally shot by some amateurs.

Clint thought about the two men who had been in the saloon with the dead man. If Clint and Dakota were shot at by them, it would be no accident.

“I guess we could've just ridden out to that canyon,” Dakota said after a while.

“Is that where the tracks are leading us?”

“Looks like.”

“Then that's probably where Fiddler will go, too, isn't it?”

She turned in her saddle, looked at him, and said, “I guess we'll find out when we get there.”

Fiddler reached the canyon late in the day. He'd been following the same trail Dakota picked up. He may have looked ancient, but his eyesight and tracking ability were still excellent. It was the white man whose eyes and stamina faded with age.

He camped just outside the canyon in a clearing that would give him enough warning if the Wendigo charged his fire, which it usually didn't do. He also had Horse, who would kick up a ruckus if she caught even a hint of Wendigo. If anything happened, the packhorse would be the first casualty, but that was all right. That was why he'd bought the animal.

While waiting for the coffee to be ready Fiddler thought back to the boy's body he saw at the undertaker's. He had, of course, seen the outcome of a Wendigo attack before, but nothing like with that boy. This particular beast had been frenzied, concerned more with ripping apart than with feeding. Fiddler even suspected he'd find the chunks of flesh that had been bitten or gouged out, unless another hungry predator had already found and consumed them.

Fiddler kept his supplies as simple as possible, even though he required the presence of a packhorse. He carried a lot of coffee and beans and some dried beef jerky, which would sustain him for the duration of his hunt. If anyone were to see his packhorse, they'd wonder why he even needed one, but that was one concession to age. He wanted to carry as little as he could on himself and on Horse.

He made his fire, cooked his coffee and beans, and sat down to eat with his rifle on the ground next to him. He wore a pistol tucked into his belt. He wasn't very good with it, but it would do for close-range work.

He ate slowly, chewing as well as he could with the collection of teeth scattered in his mouth. He thought about Dakota. He did not want her to find the Wendigo—or the Wendigo to find her—because he did not want her to die. She was a good hunter, but she should stick to animals.

As for Clint Adams, he was a legend in his own right, but he was out of his element here. He was also likely to get killed. And any number of the amateur hunters as well. Fiddler had to find the Wendigo, or attract it to him, as soon as possible.

He took out one piece of beef jerky after the beans were gone, poured himself another cup of coffee. Because of his teeth—or lack of them—the jerky was harder to eat, but he proceeded diligently.

Clint and Dakota made camp. She built the fire while he saw to the horses. She also started their food, but left the coffee to him at his request.

“I make very good trail coffee,” he said.

“Good,” she said, “because I don't.”

She did a good job, though, with the bacon and beans, scraped it all off in equal portions, and handed him a plate and spoon.

“Jack Fiddler probably already made it to the canyon,” she told him.

“You think he moved faster than we did? As old as he is and with a packhorse?”

“I wouldn't be surprised if he got there by magic,” she said, “but yes, I think he did.”

“Then maybe he'll kill it by the time we get there.”

“I hope not.”

“You'll forgive me if I hope so.”

“Of course,” she said. “We'll forgive each other, won't we?”

“Why not?”

“I know you don't want me to face the Wendigo, but it's something I have to do.”

“Why?”

“Because I've faced every other kind of animal there is,” Dakota said. “I've killed them all.”

“So you feel the need to test yourself?”

“I don't think of it as testing,” she said. “I'm just . . . pushin' myself.”

Clint poured himself some more coffee after she shook her head declining more.

“I can understand that.”

“You've pushed yourself?”

“When I was your age, or younger,” he said, “yes. It was important to me . . . then.

“Then you understand.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, “but I still wish you wouldn't.”

She smiled at him.

“Do you want to take the first watch? Or second?”

“I'll take the first,” he said. “I'm not tired, and I'd like some more coffee.”

“You really do like that stuff, don't you?” she asked. “I prefer whiskey.”

“Do you have any with you?” he asked.

“No,” she said, climbing into her bedroll. “I don't drink when I'm huntin'.”

She turned over, put her back to the fire, and he said softly, “Neither do I.”

Camped a few miles away were Denny Blaine and Ed Largent, sitting around a fire cooking up bacon and beans. The wind was blowing the scent of their food toward Clint and Dakota's camp, but they couldn't smell it because of their own cooking odors.

“We're ridin' around in circles,” Largent complained.

“I told you,” Blaine said, “I'm trackin' the thing.”

“I don't see any tracks.”

“That's why it's my job,” Blaine said. “Just relax, Ed. The only ones out here are us, Fiddler, and Adams and the girl. Tomorrow these woods will be crawling with every idiot who thinks they can shoot a gun. We've got a head start.”

“Fiddler,” Largent said, “he's the one who's gonna get it—and the money.”

“No,” Blaine said, “we're gonna get it and the money. That's the way it's gonna be.”

Largent glumly moved his food around his plate.

“You've got first watch, Ed,” Blaine said. He placed his head on his saddle and promptly went to sleep.

Largent couldn't have slept if he tried, so he didn't mind taking first watch. After half an hour, Blaine was snoring noisily and Largent was pouring himself some more coffee when he heard something moving in the brush. He stood up quickly and drew his gun. He was going to shout, “Who's there?” when he suddenly wondered if Wendigo's could talk.

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.

“Jesus—” he cried out, scooting back so it wouldn't hit him.

And then he saw it.

“Crap!” he said.

He drew his weapon. He had time to stand up, no time to pull the trigger of his gun, but plenty of time to scream . . .

From his camp Fiddler heard the shots, and then the scream. It came from far enough away that he knew the Wendigo would not be coming for him this night. It had already fed. Even Horse was standing more quietly now.

Calmly, he rolled over, wrapped the blanket around himself, put his head on his saddle, and went to sleep.

Clint came awake as soon as the shots were fired. He rolled away from his bedroll and got to his feet. He had his gun in his hand, as did Dakota.

“Did you hear that?” Dakota asked.

“I heard it,” Clint said. “It's not far.”

They both stood there, listening, and then the scream came, drawn out, and then abruptly cut off.

“Jesus,” she said, “it's out there. Somebody's in trouble. Come on!”

“Wait!” He grabbed her arm.

“We have to go—”

“Where?” he asked. “They're already dead, whoever the poor bastards are. What good would it do for us to go traipsing around in the dark? We'd only end up dead, too, more than likely.”

“But—”

“But what, Dakota?”

She looked at him helplessly.

“They may need help.”

“I think you know better than that,” he said. “You heard that scream cut off.”

“Jesus,” she said again, shaking her head. “That poor bastard.”

“I just hope it wasn't Fiddler,” Clint said, sliding his gun back into his holster.

“It wasn't.”

He looked at her.

“How do you know?”

"Jack Fiddler would never scream like that,” she said. “Never.”

In the morning they changed direction and rode toward the sound of the shots and the scream. If Fiddler had gotten to the canyon already, they couldn't help it. But they needed to know what had happened in the night.

When they reached the camp, there was still some smoke trailing up from the fire. In the morning sunlight they could see the blood on the ground, the bits of body strewn about, and in one spot the severed head.

“Jesus,” she said.

They wanted to get closer, but Dakota's horse wouldn't budge. The smell of blood gave him a case of stiff legs.

“Let's dismount,” Clint said.

They did and approached the camp, each with a gun in hand. There was a leg here and an arm there.

“How many?” she asked.

“Looks like two men,” Clint said.

“Know them?”

“We have a choice,” Clint said. “We can look at the head, or at that torso over there with the head still attached.”

Dakota swallowed.

“You keep watch,” Clint said. “I'll look at their faces.”

She didn't argue.

First he leaned over so he could see the face on the head, which was in the dirt. He had to reach down with the barrel of his gun and nudge it a bit so it would turn. The eyes were still open, and the face looked familiar. When he walked over to the other one, lying on its back, he recognized them both.

“They were in the saloon last night,” he said, “with the fellow who shot at us.”

“And they were out here hunting,” she said.

“Guess they tried to get us out of the way first,” Clint said. “Little did they know they'd find the Wendigo first—or the other way around.”

“This is just like the Lawrence boy,” she said.

“Yes,” Clint said. “No doubt they were killed by the same . . . thing.”

“We'd better get goin',” Dakota said. “Now that it's fed, maybe it's headin' for that canyon. Fiddler's there alone.”