Read Online The Valley of the Wendigo by J. R. Roberts - Free Book Online Page B

got to stop thinkin’ about bears, Clint. And cats don’t grow this big. They average about a hundred and sixty pounds, and they sure don’t have paws this big.”
    â€œOkay,” Clint said, “so I guess that leaves a Wendigo.”
    â€œYeah,” she said, “a Wendigo.”
    â€œIs it possible,” he asked, “that the Wendigo is a living creature rather than some sort of magic myth?”
    â€œI hope so,” she said. “I’m hopin’ for somethin’ we can kill with bullets. If we need magic to kill it, we’re gonna be shit out of luck.”
    They continued to ride, with Dakota taking the lead. She kept her head down, watching the ground for sign, so Clint kept his head up, watching their backs, watching for other animals or other hunters. He didn’t want them getting accidentally shot by some amateurs.
    Clint thought about the two men who had been in the saloon with the dead man. If Clint and Dakota were shot at by them, it would be no accident.
    â€œI guess we could’ve just ridden out to that canyon,” Dakota said after a while.
    â€œIs that where the tracks are leading us?”
    â€œLooks like.”
    â€œThen that’s probably where Fiddler will go, too, isn’t it?”
    She turned in her saddle, looked at him, and said, “I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

TWENTY-ONE
    Fiddler reached the canyon late in the day. He’d been following the same trail Dakota picked up. He may have looked ancient, but his eyesight and tracking ability were still excellent. It was the white man whose eyes and stamina faded with age.
    He camped just outside the canyon in a clearing that would give him enough warning if the Wendigo charged his fire, which it usually didn’t do. He also had Horse, who would kick up a ruckus if she caught even a hint of Wendigo. If anything happened, the packhorse would be the first casualty, but that was all right. That was why he’d bought the animal.
    While waiting for the coffee to be ready Fiddler thought back to the boy’s body he saw at the undertaker’s. He had, of course, seen the outcome of a Wendigo attack before, but nothing like with that boy. This particular beast had been frenzied, concerned more with ripping apart than with feeding. Fiddler even suspected he’d find the chunks of flesh that had been bitten or gouged out, unless another hungry predator had already found and consumed them.
    Fiddler kept his supplies as simple as possible, even though he required the presence of a packhorse. He carried a lot of coffee and beans and some dried beef jerky, which would sustain him for the duration of his hunt. If anyone were to see his packhorse, they’d wonder why he even needed one, but that was one concession to age. He wanted to carry as little as he could on himself and on Horse.
    He made his fire, cooked his coffee and beans, and sat down to eat with his rifle on the ground next to him. He wore a pistol tucked into his belt. He wasn’t very good with it, but it would do for close-range work.
    He ate slowly, chewing as well as he could with the collection of teeth scattered in his mouth. He thought about Dakota. He did not want her to find the Wendigo—or the Wendigo to find her—because he did not want her to die. She was a good hunter, but she should stick to animals.
    As for Clint Adams, he was a legend in his own right, but he was out of his element here. He was also likely to get killed. And any number of the amateur hunters as well. Fiddler had to find the Wendigo, or attract it to him, as soon as possible.
    He took out one piece of beef jerky after the beans were gone, poured himself another cup of coffee. Because of his teeth—or lack of them—the jerky was harder to eat, but he proceeded diligently.
    Clint and Dakota made camp. She built the fire while he saw to the horses. She also started their food, but left the coffee to him