The Valley of the Wendigo (14 page)

“We used a path from the top to get in,” Clint said.

“The way Fiddler came in was too narrow for the— say, how did you get in with your horses?”

“We used another way,” Dekker said. “Far end of the valley.”

“Valley,” Clint said, “not a canyon.”

“Can you lead us out?” Dakota asked.

“Sure thing.”

“Then do it,” she said. “The sooner we get out of this place the better.”

“Wait,” Keller said. “Is the Wendigo thing dead?”

“We don't know,” Clint said, “but you can wait around to find out if you want.” He turned and looked at Dekker. “Why didn't you tell me there was another way in?”

“You never asked,” Dekker said.

Dekker showed them the way out, and then they headed for town. Keller rode up ahead with Dakota while Dekker lay back with Clint.

“I want to warn you about Keller,” Dekker said.

“I've heard of him,” Clint said.

“He's looking to pad his rep at your expense,” Dekker said. “First he wanted the bounty, and then you. Now that the bounty might be done . . .”

“I get it,” Clint said. “What's your connection with him?”

“I ran him out of town a few weeks ago.”

“Why?”

“He killed my deputy.”

“And you didn't lock him up?”

“It was a fair fight,” Dekker said. “That was a case of my fool deputy lookin' to make a name for hisself, so he took off his badge and called Keller out. Keller killed him slicker'n snot.”

“He's good, huh?”

“He's good.”

“I guess he doesn't have much respect for the law if he came back after you kicked him out.”

“Not the law,” Dekker said, “just me. He never did respect me, not even when we was kids.”

“Kids?”

Dekker nodded.

“Yeah, Keller's my older brother.”

When they got back to town, they all rode to the livery to unsaddle their horses and leave them in the care of the liveryman. Clint kept a wary eye on Keller, who didn't seem to be paying any attention to him. He was too busy talking to Dakota.

“Do they know each other?” Clint asked Dekker.

“Yeah,” Dekker said, “they know each other. Don't worry, Dakota's too smart to have anything to do with Keller.”

Keller left the stable first. By the time Clint, Dekker, and Dakota got outside, he was gone.

“Be on the lookout for him,” Dakota warned Clint.

“The sheriff already told me,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

As they walked back to town together, Dekker asked Clint to come to his office to talk about what had happened.

“I'm gonna have to make a report to the mayor and the town council.”

“I'm gonna get a drink,” Dakota said. “I'll see you in the saloon.”

Clint agreed, and followed Dekker back to his office.

Dakota walked over to the Border Saloon, still going over in her mind the events of the night before. She hated the thought that Fiddler might have been carried off and then killed. And if that was the case, then the Wendigo was still alive and kicking, and would strike again when it got dark.

If it didn't, would that mean Fiddler had killed it? Or would it stop killing on its own?

Dakota had a definite need for some whiskey. But as she entered the saloon, the shock of what she saw stopped her dead in her tracks.

“I put a bullet in the cat's head,” Clint was finishing his story. “But in the morning, it was gone.”

“Could the carcass have been carried off by another predator?” Dekker asked.

“What other predator carries off a cougar?”

“Coyote? Wolf?”

“Any sign of those around here since the Wendigo?”

“None,” Dekker agreed. “So maybe the Wendigo took it.”

“After it took Fiddler?”

“I don't know,” Dekker said helplessly. “What am I supposed to tell the mayor?”

“Tell him to pick up a damned gun and go hunting,” Clint said.

Dekker was about to answer when the door to the office slammed open and Dakota appeared out of breath.

“Ya gotta come . . .” she said.

“What's wrong—” Clint started, but she wouldn't let him ask any questions.

“Ya gotta come,” she said again.

Clint exchanged a look with Dekker, who got up from his desk.

“If we gotta come, we gotta come,” he said to Clint. “Lead the way, gal.”

She was out the door and they had to rush to follow . . .

Dakota led them to the saloon, then stood outside and said, “Have a look.”

“What's gotten into you?” Clint asked.

“Just go in and take a look and you'll see.”

Clint shrugged. He and Dekker went through the batwing doors into the saloon.

“What the hell—” Dekker said.

“I'll be damned,” Clint said.

Sitting at a table alone, except for a half-finished bottle of whiskey, was Jack Fiddler, looking none the worse for wear.

Dakota came in behind them.

“He always gets drunk after a successful hunt,” she said.

“Successful, huh?” Clint asked.

“Then the Wendigo is dead?” Dekker asked.

“Ask him,” Dakota said, “when he sobers up.”

Clint woke the next morning with Dakota—freshly bathed the night before—smelling sweet in the bed next to him, despite the fact that they had worked up a sweat during the night.

The first time he entered her last night, it was as if they were both reveling in the fact that they were alive. He fucked her hard, slamming the bed against the wall again and again while she grunted and moaned beneath him, calling his name, imploring him on and on, harder and harder . . .

... later, when they woke, Clint straddled her from behind, kissed her butt cheeks and thighs until she woke up, then turned her over and buried his face in her fragrant bush. He licked her until the bed was wet with her juices, then straddled her and took her again, but slower this time—long, slow strokes that made her grunt in a different way each time he went in to the hilt. He kissed her, kissed her lips and breasts and nipples until she bit her lips to keep from crying out, and then he exploded into her . . .

. . . and later still when he woke he was already erect and in her mouth, and she sucked him like he was sugar-coated until he could hold back no longer and she laughed afterward as she licked her lips and smiled . . .

... and then they slept.

The next morning—sober as a judge after a good night's sleep—Jack Fiddler claimed that he killed the Wendigo that night in the valley, and then left.

“I had no reason to stay after the job was done,” he reasoned.

“Letting us know you weren't dead,” Clint said, “how was that for a reason?”

“You had your own problems with the cat,” Fiddler said. “You did kill the cat, didn't you?”

“I think so.”

“You think?”

Clint explained what had happened.

“The ghost spirit left the cat and took the body with it,” Fiddler said. “You killed it, Clint.”

Clint felt oddly relieved to have his kill verified by the master hunter himself.

Most of the day was spent prying the bounty out of the mayor's hands.

“I have no proof,” he complained. “No body.”

“It was a Wendigo,” Fiddler said, when the word was passed to him by the sheriff.

The mayor still complained he could not pay a bounty without proof.

“Okay,” Dekker offered, “how about tonight? If we go tonight without a kill, will that prove it?”

“No,” the mayor said, “one night won't prove it.”

Dekker went back to Fiddler.

“I will not stay more than one night,” the Cree said. “If I do not have my money tomorrow, I will bring the Wendigo back.”

“You'll what?” Dekker asked.

“I will bring the Wendigo back to life and set it loose again,” Fiddler said.

“I'll tell that to the mayor,” Dekker said, “and see if it works.”

Later, in the saloon, Dekker told Clint and Dakota, “Fiddler's gone.”

The three of them were standing at the bar with mugs of beer in their hands.

“I know,” she said, “he said good-bye.”

“How did you get the mayor to pay him?” Clint asked.

“I didn't,” Dekker said. “Fiddler did.”

“How?”

“He threatened to bring that thing back to life and set it loose on the town again.”

“And that scared the mayor?” Clint asked.

“Let's say it convinced him.”

“Could he do that?” Clint asked, looking at Dakota. “Could he bring it back to life?”

“You're askin' me that like you actually believe it was alive in the first place,” she said, looking amused.

“Well . . . something was alive in that valley,” Clint said, “and it looks like Fiddler got rid of it.”

“Well,” she said, “I wouldn't put it past that old man, would you?”

“Not me,” Clint said. “I wouldn't put anything past him.”

He looked at the sheriff.

“Me, neither,” the lawman said. “I'm just glad it's all over.”

“Almost over,” Clint said, nodding his head toward the door.

Dekker and Dakota looked in that direction and saw that Keller had entered the saloon.

“Goddamn it,” Dekker said.

Keller approached them and Dekker made his feelings known even louder.

“Goddamn it, Keller!”

“This ain't got nothin' to do with you, Dekker.”

“The hell it ain't.”

“Hey, if you two are brothers,” Clint asked, “why do you have different last names?”

“I changed mine,” Dekker said. “I took my maw's last name after Keller, here, killed his first man.”

“That was a long time ago,” Keller said. “We wuz kids.”

“The man you killed was no kid,” Dekker said. “As I recall he was a family man.”

“He pushed me into a fight,” Keller said. “He got what he deserved.”

“So now you want to push me into a fight?” Clint asked.

“That's what we do, you and me,” Keller said to Clint.

“You and me?” Clint asked. “How old are you, Keller?”

“Thirty-five.”

“You aren't in the same class as me, boy,” Clint said. “I know your reputation. It's been built on killing farmhands, and store clerks, and foolish young deputies.”

Keller's face turned red.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Clint said, “so go away and let me finish my beer with my friends.”

Clint turned his back on Keller, a move that made both Dekker and Dakota cringe.

Keller glared at Clint's back for a few moments, then his shoulders and back settled down and he asked, “You mind if I have a beer with ya?”

“That's up to your brother,” Clint said.

“One beer,” Keller said, “and then you and me is goin' out onto the street. I'll show you a reputation built on farmers.”

Clint turned again and looked at the man.

“Okay, I'll tell you what. I'm going to buy you a beer.”

Clint signaled to the bartender to bring him two fresh beers.

“You stand at that end of the bar,” Clint said, “I'll stand at this end.”

Dekker grabbed Dakota's arm and pulled her away so that no one was standing between Keller and Clint.

“What's he doin'?” she asked.

“One beer is Clint, the other one is Keller,” Dekker explained. “I seen this once before.”

“You make the first move,” Clint said. “Let's see who can shoot the other beer first.”

“This is stupid.”

“You shatter my beer before I shatter yours,” Clint said, “and I'll step out into the street with you.”

“And if you shatter mine?”

“Then you're dead,” Clint said, “so to speak.”

Keller looked around the room, saw that everyone was watching him expectantly.

“Okay?” Clint asked.

“Okay.”

Clint pushed one beer down the bar to Keller, who caught it with his left hand.

“When you're ready,” Clint said.

Keller dropped his left hand from the body, dangled his right near his gun. When he went for his weapon, the beer mug next to him suddenly shattered, dousing him with beer. He stared at Clint Adams, whose gun was already back in his holster. Keller had never even cleared leather.

Dekker and Dakota rejoined Clint at the bar, and Dekker said, “Bartender, give my brother a fresh beer. I think he needs it.”

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FIVE POINTS

318
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novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series from Jove