The Valley of the Wendigo Read online

  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.”

  FORTY-THREE

  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 stare
d 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.”

  Watch for FIVE POINTS

  318th novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series from Jove

  Coming in June!