He was so shocked at having so narrowly missed shooting a man that it did not occur to him that perhaps he had caught the honey-thief.
“Take off zis trap,” cried the man, with an oath. “He break my leg.”
Alice was lighting the lantern in the cabin. In the darkness Carl could just make out that the fellow was caught by one foot. To open the stiff springs of the trap he would need a lever.
“Wait a minute!” he called, groping about for a stout pole.
He found one, bent over the trap, and then uttered a startled exclamation. The man’s imprisoned foot looked strangely huge and deformed. He struck a match; the man struck it from his hand, but in the momentary flash Carl saw that the fellow was wearing enormous, padded moccasins.
“Oho!” he cried. “So you’re the wendigo!”
It was not a wild beast in the trap: it was a man!
“No understan’,” growled the prisoner. “Open zis trap and let me go.”
Carl hesitated a moment. Then he pried down one of the springs, slipped the ring down to hold it, and released the other spring. The jaws fell apart. The man withdrew his foot, almost toppled over, and then painfully hobbled a few steps.