The Valley of the Wendigo by J. R. Roberts

here at two o’clock. We can have a drink before we go and see the mayor.”
    â€œOne drink,” Clint cautioned. “You don’t want to be drunk when you’re pleading your case.”
    â€œOr our case.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWhat if we went in as . . . partners?”
    Just for a moment he wondered if she’d somehow been listening to his conversation with the sheriff.
    â€œYou wouldn’t mind that?”
    â€œI think together we’d be the perfect hunter,” she said. “Maybe better than Fiddler. My hunting skills and your ability with guns. We’d be unbeatable.”
    â€œI didn’t know it was a contest.”
    â€œWhen there’s money involved, it’s always a contest.”
    â€œWhy don’t we see how receptive the mayor is, first?”
    She smiled and said, “Deal.”

SIXTEEN
    After leaving Dakota, Clint went back to Jack Fiddler’s camp, hoping to catch the old Cree before he left for his hunt. Luckily, the man was still loading his packhorse with supplies.
    Clint entered the camp, knowing that Fiddler was aware of him there.
    â€œYou are back with somethin’ on your mind,” Fiddler said.
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œYou have returned without Dakota,” Fiddler said. “So this must be about her.”
    â€œIt is.”
    Fiddler turned to face Clint.
    â€œCan you convince her not to hunt the Wendigo?”
    â€œI doubt it.”
    â€œSo then you will go with her.”
    â€œBut I told you I would not hunt,” Clint pointed out.
    Fiddler waved that away.
    â€œI do not want her to be hurt,” he said. “With you along there is less chance of that.”
    â€œSo you don’t mind?”
    â€œYou came seekin’ my permission?” the Cree hunter asked.
    â€œNot permission as much as . . . dispensation.”
    â€œYou have it,” Fiddler said.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œIs there something else?”
    â€œIs there?”
    Clint hesitated.
    â€œYou want to know about the Wendigo,” the Cree said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou do not believe.”
    â€œIt’s not that, but . . .”
    â€œI have seen them,” Fiddler said. “I have seen what they have done. And I have killed them.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œWith magic.”
    â€œNot guns?”
    â€œNot your guns,” Fiddler said. “Not Dakota’s. To hunt the Wendigo with only guns is foolhardy.”
    â€œSo everyone else who hunts them is . . . suicidal?”
    â€œAs I said,” Fiddler corrected. “Foolhardy. Each does it for his or her own reason.”
    â€œI think most of them are going to be doing it for the thousand dollars.”
    â€œThousand?”
    â€œIt goes up today.”
    Fiddler just shook his head.
    â€œI must go,” he said. “The sooner I kill it, the more lives will be spared.”
    â€œCan’t you give me any advice, Fiddler?” Clint asked. “I’m not after the money.”
    â€œI know, my friend,” Fiddler said. “You are doin’ it for the woman.”
    â€œI’m doing it in the hopes of keeping the woman alive,” Clint said.
    â€œThen take the advice I give you, and take it to heart,” Fiddler said.
    â€œI will.”
    â€œKeep her away,” Fiddler said. “Do not let her hunt, for the Wendigo will surely kill her—and you.”
    â€œThat’s it?”
    â€œThat,” Jack Fiddler said, again showing Clint that crooked index finger, “is the best advice I can give you.”
    â€œThen I’ll try to take it to heart.”
    Fiddler nodded, then shook his head as if he were thinking. “I know you will, but I also know you will not do what I say.”

SEVENTEEN
    When Clint met Dakota in the hotel lobby, they walked over to the saloon together and ordered a beer each.
    â€œBefore we go see the mayor, I have to talk