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

boy,” she said.
    â€œYes,” Clint said. “No doubt they were killed by the same . . . thing.”
    â€œWe’d better get goin’,” Dakota said. “Now that it’s fed, maybe it’s headin’ for that canyon. Fiddler’s there alone.”
    â€œIsn’t that the way he likes it?” Clint asked.
    â€œIt’s not the way I like it.”
    â€œMaybe there’s something in camp we can use.”
    â€œI want to get out of here,” she said, looking around. “We don’t need anythin’.”
    â€œAll right.” He relented. “All right. We should probably bury the . . . the pieces, but we don’t have time.”
    â€œNo, we don’t,” she said.
    They walked back to the horses and mounted up, took one last look at the carnage in the camp, then turned the horses and headed in the direction of the canyon. There was no use following a trail any more.
    Fiddler found the entryway to the canyon. He’d missed it last night in the dark. The Wendigo could have gotten by him and into the canyon after its kill. He was going to have to go in and take a look.
    On foot.
    He tied the packhorse off, left the meager supplies on its back. Then he tied Horse off, but lightly, so if she reared or pulled back she’d be able to get loose.
    â€œThe next one could always be the last one, ol’ Horse,” he said, patting the animal’s neck.
    He checked his pistol, stuck it back in his belt, then checked the action of his Winchester. Then he touched the leather sack he wore around his neck.
    That was where the magic was.

TWENTY-FOUR
    â€œDo you know what a Wendigo does after it’s killed or fed?” Clint asked her.
    â€œNo,” she said. “Fiddler would know.”
    â€œThere’s going to be more hunters traipsing around these woods today,” he said. “They might attract it.”
    â€œIf it went back to that canyon last night, after it killed,” she said, “and Fiddler was there . . .”
    â€œWe didn’t hear any other shots,” Clint said. “The Wendigo and Fiddler may have missed each other last night.”
    â€œI hope so,” she said. “I like that old man. He thinks he can’t be killed.”
    â€œWe can all be killed,” Clint said.
    â€œHe thinks he has magic that keeps him alive,” she said, “magic that kills the Wendigo.”
    â€œWell, for his sake,” Clint commented, “I hope he’s right.”
    â€œIt may cost me two thousand dollars,” she said, “but I hope so, too.”
    It was midday by the time Clint and Dakota reached what had obviously been Fiddler’s campsite for the night. The fire was cold, but the packhorse and his own horse had been left behind.
    â€œHe went into the canyon on foot!” Clint said.
    â€œThat crazy old man,” Dakota said. “I told you he thinks he can’t be killed. He always said the best way to hunt the Wendigo was on foot.”
    â€œWhat, horses and Wendigos don’t like each other?” Clint asked. “I thought the Wendigo ate human flesh. Why would they be interested in a horse?”
    â€œI don’t know, Clint,” she said. “Maybe his mind is actually goin’ because of age. Who knows but him?”
    â€œIf he went in when he put the fire out, then he’s got hours on us,” Clint said. “He could be dead already.”
    â€œWe have to go in,” she said. “We have no choice.”
    â€œYou’re the hunter, the sign reader,” he said. “You’ll be able to tell if it’s still in there or not.”
    â€œHopefully,” Dakota said.
    â€œWhat do you mean—hopefully?”
    â€œRemember, Fiddler says the Wendigos are magic,” she reminded him. “Maybe they can walk without leaving tracks.”
    â€œAnd maybe they can fly,” he said derisively.
    â€œWho knows?”
    â€œI was