The Valley of the Wendigo Read Free Page B

it.”
    Dekker stalked out.
    â€œYou got under his skin,” Clint said.
    â€œThat what you were lookin’ all funny about?” she asked.
    â€œAmused,” Clint said. “I was lookin’ amused.”
    â€œA-mused,” she repeated, saying it like she’d never said it before. “That mean funny?”
    â€œThat means I found what you were doing to the sheriff funny, yes.”
    â€œTalk ta the mayor.” Dakota shook her head. “I think he was funnin’ me. Why would the mayor of a town talk to me?”
    â€œMaybe because he wants this thing killed,” Clint said.
    â€œHe’s already got Fiddler, he ain’t about ta pay me, too.”
    â€œHe might, if you approach him right.”
    â€œYou sayin’ you know how ta approach him right?”
    â€œI might be saying that.”
    She leaned her elbows on the table.
    â€œWhen will ya know if that’s what yer sayin’?”
    â€œMaybe,” he replied, “after you take a bath.”
    Fiddler entered the livery stable.
    â€œI need a packhorse.”
    Ed Stack looked Fiddler up and down.
    â€œYou that Indian feller they hired ta kill that Windy-go?”
    â€œWendigo,” Fiddler said. “Yes.”
    â€œHellfire, man, yer as old as me.”
    Fiddler smiled for the first time since he rode into town.
    â€œProbably older,” he said.
    â€œKin you even sit a horse?”
    â€œFor hours,” Fiddler said.
    Stack looked him up and down again.
    â€œYeah, 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.
    â€œWhy the hell would I wanna take a bath?” Dakota asked.
    â€œSo I could see the woman underneath all the dirt.” Dakota touched her hair before she caught herself and lowered her hand.
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œClint,” he said, “just Clint.”
    â€œYeah, okay, Clint,” she said. “So yer sayin’ you’ll help me with the mayor after I take a bath?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWhy would you do that?”
    â€œBecause I don’t want to hunt for this thing,” he said.
    â€œYou scared?”
    â€œI’ve hunted animals before,” he said. “When they kill, they usually kill to survive—or because they’re cornered.”
    â€œThat’s true enough.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œI have.”
    â€œWhat about Fiddler?” ”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œHow’s he going to feel about you trying to take his job?” he asked.
    â€œFiddler knows it’s open season on . . . on whatever’s out there. He’ll understand.”
    â€œDo you think it’s a Wendigo?”
    â€œBeats me.”
    â€œHave you ever seen a Wendigo?”
    â€œI haven’t,” she said. “But Fiddler’s seen ’em, and killed ’em.”
    â€œSo you believe in these creatures?”
    â€œI believe there’s somethin’ out there that deserves