The Valley of the Wendigo Page 4

  “Sounds good.”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m just down the hall. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  As he walked to his door, she put the key in hers, unlocked it, opened it, and went inside.

  ELEVEN

  Clint got as far as taking off his gun belt when there was a knock on his door. He removed the gun from the holster, dropping the belt on the bed, and went to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Dakota.”

  He opened the door, holding the gun in plain sight. She stood in the hall, hands clasped in front of her, looking a lot younger than her thirty-six years. She had not removed any of her clothes or her gun belt.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  He backed away to let her enter, then took a quick look in the hall before closing the door and turning to face her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You were about to do something in the street before the shooting started,” she said. “Do you remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well . . . it’s still been a long time for me,” she said. “Do you think you could do it . . . now?”

  Sheriff Dekker finished going through the dead man’s pockets and came up empty.

  “Albert, you didn’t take anythin’ off him, did you?” he asked the undertaker.

  “That’s a insult, Sheriff,” the man said.

  “Albert . . .”

  The old man rubbed his hands together, making a dry, raspy sound, and said, “I did take a few dollars from him. Ya know, ta pay for the burial.”

  “I don’t care about the money, Albert,” Dekker said. “I’m lookin’ for somethin’ that’ll tell me who he is or where he’s from. All I know is that he’s a stranger in town.”

  “Well, I ain’t taken anythin’ like that, Sheriff.”

  “You sure you didn’t take, say, a letter so you could write to the family and ask for more money?”

  “I swear, Sheriff,” the man said. “I didn’t take nothin’ but a few—mebbe five dollars.”

  “Well,” Dekker said, “he musta been sittin’ with somebody in the saloon. All right, Albert. I’m done.”

  Albert walked the sheriff to the door, locked it when the lawman stepped outside. Dekker figured no one was going to admit to sitting with the man, not after he’d tried to back-shoot the Gunsmith. He decided to save his questions for the bartender until the morning, then went home to get some sleep. Tomorrow there would likely be more hunters—most of them amateurs—coming to town in response to the bounty.

  Wait until they found the mayor was raising it.

  Jack Fiddler heard the shooting from his camp, but didn’t bother going to see what was going on. It wasn’t any of his business. His business was the Wendigo, and that was all he was concerned with. He pulled his blanket around him and moved closer to the fire. That old horse of his would warn him if anybody came close to camp. He was asleep in seconds.

  Clint picked up the holster from the bed, slid the gun home, and hung the belt on the bedpost. Then he turned to Dakota, who was waiting for an answer. He walked to her, took her in his arms, and kissed her deeply, lovingly—and longer than he’d intended, because it was so good he didn’t want it to end. Her mouth came alive, as did her tongue, and she writhed against him as if trying to get closer and closer to him.

  “Oh, God,” she said when they broke the kiss.

  “Was it the way you remembered?” he asked, not releasing his hold on her. He could feel her full breasts pressing against him, and the heat from her crotch was driving right through the double-layer denim that was between them.

  “No,” she said breathlessly, “I ain’t never been kissed like that, Clint.”

  “Well, maybe you would be if you’d let men see what you really look like, Dakota.”

  “I’ve been with men before,” she said. “They never seemed real worried about what I felt. They was always worried about their own feelings.”

  “Then you haven’t been with any real men,” he said, toying with the top button of her shirt. “A real man makes sure the woman he’s with is happy before he worries about his own pleasure.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I mean—I don’t think there’s any other men like you out there. Can we, uh, kiss some more?”

  “As much as you want.”

  “I mean . . . it felt good to you, too?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, touching her lower lip with his thumb, “it felt real good, Dakota.”

  He kissed her again, drawing her in as close as he could, sliding his hands down to the small of her back. He wanted to grab her butt with both hands and grind himself against her, but he didn’t know how she would react to that.

  They were both breathless this time and she stepped back to get her breath back.

  “Um, I guess I should be gettin’ back to my own room.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Not that I really want ta go,” she said. “If you think it’s been a long time since I been kissed, it’s been even longer since I been with a man.

  “Dakota,” he said, “I’d really like it if you stayed, but I don’t want to take advantage—”

  “Oh, you ain’t,” she said hurriedly. “I’m as sober as a judge, I swear. Know what I’m doin’.”

  “Well, then, I guess the first thing you should do is take off that gun belt.”

  TWELVE

  “Where are we goin’?” Largent asked Blaine.

  “We’re gettin’ out of here before the law comes askin’ questions.”

  “About what?” Largent asked. He was still seated while Blaine was standing. “We didn’t do nothin’.”

  “Look, Eddie, we don’t wanna be sittin’ here when the law comes in askin’ questions about Sanchez.”

  “All we gotta say is we didn’t know ’im.”

  “And what if somebody tells the sheriff he was sittin’ with us?” Blaine asked.

  Largent chewed his lower lip.

  “I didn’t think about that.”

  “Well, that’s why I do the thinkin’,” Blaine said. “So get yer ass up and let’s get over to the rooming house. We gotta get some sleep, anyway.”

  Largent stood and asked. “We gonna start huntin’ that thing tomorrow?”

  “Bright and early, son,” Blaine said, “bright and early.”

  Clint undressed Dakota gingerly. First her shirt, then her trousers, and then he discovered that she didn’t wear any frilly undergarments. She had on a pair of long johns.

  “Guess this looks kinda funny, huh?” she asked, standing there in her long underwear.

  “If you saw what I see, you wouldn’t think it was funny. You’d think it was . . . kinda sexy.”

  He could see the size and shape of her big, pear-shaped breasts right through the flannel, and the big nipples that were poking against it. He walked up to her and cupped her breasts right through the fabric, grazed the nipples with his thumbs and then kissed her again. This time, while he kissed her, he undid the long underwear, and then started peeling it off her. When he had it down to her waist, he stepped back and stared at her pale, goose-dappled flesh, and her pink nipples.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “I ain’t.”

  “Yeah, you are. Let’s get this all the way off.”

  He pulled the underwear down to her ankles, and then she stepped out of them. He tossed them away and took another look. The patch of hair between her legs was even paler than the hair on her head, and it was unruly. He stepped closer and ran his hands over her body, cupping the breasts again, sliding them around to touch her buttocks and then her thighs. He put one hand between them, cupped her crotch, and used his thumb to probe into the hair. He found her wet and slick, and she caught her breath as he stroked her.

  “Oh, Jesus,” she said, “my legs are weak.”

  He guided
her to the bed, sat her down, and began to undress.

  “I ain’t never watched a man undress before,” she said.

  “Well, it ain’t much to see,” he said. When he stepped out of his clothes and stood before her naked, his erection was at full attention.

  She reached out for him, pulled back, then reached again. This time she took his pole in her hand and stroked it, examined it. She reached beneath him to cup his balls, and then stroke them.

  “Lie back,” he said. He didn’t think she’d be ready for any playing around. He knew he wasn’t. He wanted to be inside her.

  She lay back on the bed and she was a sight to behold. The light from the lamp made her hair—both on her head and between her legs—almost glow. It even picked up the light hairs on her forearms. Her arms seemed to glow, as well.

  He got in bed with her, spread her legs, positioned himself between her thighs, and pressed the big, spongy head of his dick to her moist slit. She gasped, and opened her legs even wider for him. He slid into her nice and slow, but all the way in so that she bit her lip as her eyes widened. She was steamy and wet. He began to move in and out of her, propping himself up on his arms, looking down on her face. As he fucked her, he leaned down and kissed her mouth, sliding his tongue in and out, and then moved down to lick and bite her big nipples.

  “Oh, God, Clint,” she said, “I ain’t never had it like this.”

  He put his mouth to her ear, which only served to excite her more, and said, “This is just the beginning.”

  “Don’t know if I can take any more.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “you will.”

  He lowered his weight onto her. She was big and strong enough to take it. He slid his hands beneath her, cupped her big buttocks, and began to fuck her faster, going as deep as he could each time, squeezing her ass, pulling her to him. Her arms and legs went around him and she found his tempo and began moving along with him. Before long they were both mindless as their flesh slapped together, and their passions rose . . .

  THIRTEEN

  By morning Dakota had lost all sense of shyness. She woke him by taking his cock in her mouth and sucking it until it was erect, then sliding up and sitting on top of him, taking him deep inside her. She rode him that way, her head tossed back, her hands pressed down onto his abdomen. He reached up and took hold of her breasts, cupping them so they wouldn’t bounce so much and so he could suck and lick her nipples some more.

  “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” she moaned as she bounced up and down on him.

  He started to feel his orgasm rising up inside of him so he forcefully flipped her over, took hold of her ankles, held her legs apart, and fucked her that way until he exploded inside of her. After a full night of seeing to her needs, he didn’t think she’d mind if he saw to his own pleasure just once . . .

  Since they had planned on having breakfast together anyway, they stuck to that plan. It was the first such meal for either of them in town, so they walked a ways until they found a small café and then went inside. It seemed like they’d made a good choice, because the place was crowded. Clint wasn’t able to get a table in a corner, but they did get one that was away from the windows.

  “I’ll watch your back,” she promised him.

  After the way she had reacted to the shooting the night before, he had no doubt that she was capable of doing that.

  Once they ordered their breakfast, she asked, “Which one of us do you think killed him last night?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well . . . I was kinda hopin’ it wasn’t me,” she said. “Is that terrible?”

  “No, not at all,” he said.

  “See, I don’t make a habit of killin’ people,” she said. “I hunt animals.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone?” he asked, because she’d been vague about it.

  “Seems I’m admittin’ to you all the things I ain’t done—or ain’t done in a long time—but no, I never shot a man before.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “as quickly as you acted, I think I managed to get off two shots first. I’m pretty sure I got him, and he only had one hole in him.”

  “Thanks for that,” she said. “Guess we’re gonna have to talk to the sheriff sooner or later.”

  “Looks like sooner,” he told her. “He just walked in.” Sheriff Dekker crossed the room and approached their table.

  “You folks mind if I join ya?” he asked.

  “Have a seat, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Full breakfast or just coffee?”

  “Coffee,” he said, pulling a chair out and sitting. “I had my breakfast already. Good morning, Miss Dakota.”

  “It’s just Dakota, Sheriff,” she said. “Nobody calls me Miss.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, “but a lady as pretty as you deserves some respect—if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

  “No, Sheriff,” she said, “I don’t mind at all.”

  “Any word on who that young fellow I shot is, Sheriff?” Clint asked.

  “Nothin’,” Dekker said. “Had nothin’ on him that would identify him, and the bartender didn’t know who he was. Did say he thought he saw him sittin’ with some fellers in the saloon.”

  Clint snapped his fingers.

  “That’s where I saw him,” he said. “There were three of them sitting together, and they seemed real interested in me.”

  “I wonder why all three wouldn’t have tried for you, then?” Dekker asked. “They might have had a better chance.”

  “Well, from what I saw of Dakota out there I think she and I could have handled them,” Clint said, “but apparently they sent their youngest and least experienced hand after us.”

  “Us?” Dekker asked.

  “Us?” Dakota echoed.

  “Well,” Clint said, “of course, we’re assuming they were after me, but . . .”

  “Why would they be after Dakota?” Dekker asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, “why me?”

  “I didn’t say they were. I just said we don’t know for sure who the kid was shooting at.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Dakota said. “I ain’t done nothin’ to nobody to make them wanna kill me.”

  “Well, there is a bounty on the head of the Wendigo,” Clint said. “Maybe they thought with you out of the way they’d have a better chance.”

  “Well, they’d better worry a little bit more about Jack Fiddler,” she said.

  “That’s a good point,” Clint said. “Dakota, do you know where he’s camped?”

  “Yeah, he told me last night.”

  “Maybe after breakfast we’d better go and pay him a visit, see if he had any adventures during the night.”

  “Good idea,” Dekker said. “Let me know what you find out.”

  The waiter came with their breakfasts. Dekker decided to forgo the coffee and leave them to it.

  FOURTEEN

  Dakota told Clint where Jack Fiddler’s camp was supposed to be. After breakfast they simply walked north of town until they came to it. Actually, they smelled the camp before they saw it. Coffee and beans.

  As they entered the camp, Fiddler looked up at Dakota.

  “I been waitin’ for you,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Jack, this is Clint Adams.”

  Fiddler looked at Clint. The Indian did look ancient, he had to admit.

  “Why is the Gunsmith huntin’ the Wendigo?”

  “He isn’t,” Clint said. “I’m just passing through. I didn’t want to pass up the chance to meet Jack Fiddler.”

  “You know me?”

  “I’ve heard of you.”

  “Hunker down,” he told them. “Drink coffee with me.”

  They did as he asked and he passed them each a full cup. Clint tasted it.

  “This is damn good,” he said. “I thought Indians didn’t like coffee.”

  “They don’t,” Fiddler said. “I do.”

  “Well, you make it damn good, too.”
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  Fiddler smiled, revealing more gaps than yellowed teeth.

  “Somebody took a couple of shots at us last night, Jack,” Dakota said.

  “I heard the shots. Sorry it was you. You killed him?”

  “I did.”

  “I might have,” she said. “But it’s more likely Clint’s shot got him.”

  “Good,” Fiddler said. “Hunters like you and me, we don’t kill men.”

  “No, we don’t,” Dakota said.

  “Which one of you was he after?”

  “We’re not sure,” Clint said. “Most likely me, but if it was hunters looking to whittle at the competition, they might make a try at you. Did you hear anyone near your camp last night?”

  “No.”

  “Did you sleep?” Clint asked.

  ‘Yes, but Horse would have warned me.”

  “Horse?” Clint asked. “The mare’s name is Horse?”

  Fiddler shrugged.

  “Well,” Clint said, handing back the empty cup, “I just wanted to warn you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You two probably want to talk.”

  “You want another cup?”

  “Sure,” Clint said.

  Fiddler poured and handed it to him, then warmed up Dakota’s and his own.

  “When are you goin’ out, Jack?” Dakota asked.

  “This mornin’,” Fiddler said. “I have to pick up my supplies, my packhorse, and then I’ll start. Want to help an old man?” he asked Dakota.

  “Like you need help.”

  “You could pick up my supplies for me,” he said, “while I pick up the horse. Then I can get started sooner.”

  “Sure, Fiddler,” Dakota said. “I’ll help you.” Fiddler looked at Clint.

  “Are you stayin’ in town?”

  “For a day or two,” Clint said. “I may not want to hunt the Wendigo, but I’d like to be around when you get him.” He looked at Dakota. “Or you.”

  “You’re supposed to get me in to see the mayor.” Dakota reminded Clint.

  “Oh, yeah,” Clint said. “I should get on that while you help Fiddler.”

  They all finished their coffee and stood up.

  “I’ll put out the fire and meet you back here,” Fiddler told Dakota.