Free The Valley of the Wendigo by J. R. Roberts

at his request.
    â€œI make very good trail coffee,” he said.
    â€œGood,” she said, “because I don’t.”
    She did a good job, though, with the bacon and beans, scraped it all off in equal portions, and handed him a plate and spoon.
    â€œJack Fiddler probably already made it to the canyon,” she told him.
    â€œYou think he moved faster than we did? As old as he is and with a packhorse?”
    â€œI wouldn’t be surprised if he got there by magic,” she said, “but yes, I think he did.”
    â€œThen maybe he’ll kill it by the time we get there.”
    â€œI hope not.”
    â€œYou’ll forgive me if I hope so.”
    â€œOf course,” she said. “We’ll forgive each other, won’t we?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI know you don’t want me to face the Wendigo, but it’s something I have to do.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I’ve faced every other kind of animal there is,” Dakota said. “I’ve killed them all.”
    â€œSo you feel the need to test yourself?”
    â€œI don’t think of it as testing,” she said. “I’m just . . . pushin’ myself.”
    Clint poured himself some more coffee after she shook her head declining more.
    â€œI can understand that.”
    â€œYou’ve pushed yourself?”
    â€œWhen I was your age, or younger,” he said, “yes. It was important to me . . . then.
    â€œThen you understand.”
    â€œYes, I do,” he said, “but I still wish you wouldn’t.”
    She smiled at him.
    â€œDo you want to take the first watch? Or second?”
    â€œI’ll take the first,” he said. “I’m not tired, and I’d like some more coffee.”
    â€œYou really do like that stuff, don’t you?” she asked. “I prefer whiskey.”
    â€œDo you have any with you?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” she said, climbing into her bedroll. “I don’t drink when I’m huntin’.”
    She turned over, put her back to the fire, and he said softly, “Neither do I.”

TWENTY-TWO
    Camped a few miles away were Denny Blaine and Ed Largent, sitting around a fire cooking up bacon and beans. The wind was blowing the scent of their food toward Clint and Dakota’s camp, but they couldn’t smell it because of their own cooking odors.
    â€œWe’re ridin’ around in circles,” Largent complained.
    â€œI told you,” Blaine said, “I’m trackin’ the thing.”
    â€œI don’t see any tracks.”
    â€œThat’s why it’s my job,” Blaine said. “Just relax, Ed. The only ones out here are us, Fiddler, and Adams and the girl. Tomorrow these woods will be crawling with every idiot who thinks they can shoot a gun. We’ve got a head start.”
    â€œFiddler,” Largent said, “he’s the one who’s gonna get it—and the money.”
    â€œNo,” Blaine said, “we’re gonna get it and the money. That’s the way it’s gonna be.”
    Largent glumly moved his food around his plate.
    â€œYou’ve got first watch, Ed,” Blaine said. He placed his head on his saddle and promptly went to sleep.
    Largent couldn’t have slept if he tried, so he didn’t mind taking first watch. After half an hour, Blaine was snoring noisily and Largent was pouring himself some more coffee when he heard something moving in the brush. He stood up quickly and drew his gun. He was going to shout, “Who’s there?” when he suddenly wondered if Wendigo’s could talk.
    Something moved again, making enough of a racket that he thought Blaine should’ve woke up.
    â€œSomethin’s out there,” Largent said.
    Blaine kept snoring.
    â€œDenny, wake up!” he said. “Somethin’ comin’.”
    Blaine snorted, but didn’t move.
    â€œGoddamn it, Denny—” Largent snarled,