The Valley of the Wendigo Read Free

dirt and twigs at the moment, and she didn’t smell too sweet. Clint tried to look beneath the dirt on her face for her age, came up with thirty-five or so.
    â€œSorry,” she said, “couldn’t help overhearin’ ya. I jus’ got into town, came in here for a drink, heard what you were talkin’ about. The Wendigo, right?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Dekker said. “Miss—”
    â€œDon’t call me Miss ,” she said. “I’m just Dakota.”
    â€œDakota what?” Clint asked.
    She looked at him and said, “Just Dakota. Do I understand that you refuse to hunt for the Wendigo?”
    â€œIt’s not my job,” Clint said, “and I don’t intend to make a hobby of it. So the answer is yes, I’m not going to go hunting for a mythical creature who eats human flesh.”
    She dismissed Clint and looked at the sheriff.
    â€œI’ll hunt it for ya.”
    â€œWhat makes you think you can do that?” Dekker asked.
    â€œI’ve hunted everything that can walk or crawl,” she said. “I’ve killed snakes, big cats, and bears. I ain’t afraid of anything.”
    â€œHave you had your drink yet?” Clint asked.
    â€œIt’s over there on the bar,” she said, indicating a hardly touched mug of beer.
    â€œWell, go and get it, Dakota, and come join us,” Clint said. “I want to hear all about you.”
    â€œSure thing,” she said.
    As she went to the bar for her beer, the sheriff asked, “What are you doin’?”
    â€œThis woman is a hunter,” Clint said.
    â€œHow can you tell?” Dekker asked. “How can you even tell she’s a woman beneath all that dirt?”
    â€œLook, you’re complaining about how old Fiddler is,” Clint said. “This woman has to be about half his age. Check her out if you want. Ask her for references, send a couple of telegrams, see what you find out.” Clint looked up and watched her walk back. “I think she’s for real.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Dekker said.
    â€œCome on, Sheriff,” Clint said. “She even smells like a bear, doesn’t she?”

FOUR
    Dakota pulled a chair over, slapped her beer down on the table, set her rifle down, and sat. She was wearing a gun belt across her chest, fully loaded with shells that Clint was sure would fit either the rifle or the gun she wore on her waist. She wore it high up, clearly not in position for a fast draw, but then a hunter wouldn’t need that. She wore her gun simply as a pistoleer, not as a gunfighter.
    â€œHow many has this thing killed?” she asked.
    â€œFive,” the sheriff said. “The last one was yesterday.”
    â€œWas anybody with the victims? Anybody who might have seen it?”
    Dekker looked at Clint, and Clint got the idea that Jack Fiddler had asked the same questions.
    â€œThe first four victims were alone,” Dekker said. “Yesterday’s was with someone, yeah.”
    â€œI’ll have to see the dead man and talk to the live one,” she said.
    â€œThat can be arranged.”
    â€œHow much is the bounty, by the way?”
    â€œFive hundred.”
    â€œThat’s all?”
    â€œThat’s how much it was before yesterday,” Dekker said. “I don’t set it, and I don’t know if it’s gonna change.”
    She drank some beer, wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Upon closer inspection Clint thought she’d be an attractive woman if she were cleaned up. She was tall and solidly built, and her hair, once clean, would probably be the color of wheat.
    â€œAnd how much are you payin’ Jack Fiddler?”
    â€œYou know about Fiddler?”
    â€œAnybody who’s ever hunted a critter knows about Fiddler,” she said. “He ain’t hunted nothing but Wendigos for a while, but he’s hunted every creature there ever was.”
    â€œRecently?”