“I’ll tell you in a minute. Keep moving—not too fast.”
He was not really much afraid of being attacked, but he felt much safer when they were in the cover of the woods.
“That’s where the wendigo lives,” he explained at last.
“What! the man you caught in the trap?”
“I’m sure of it. Of course I couldn’t see the fellow’s face plain that night, but this man has a good general resemblance to him, and he walks with a most suspicious limp—in the same leg, too, that the trap caught. Besides, he bolted as soon as he had a look at me. He knew who I was, all right. Yes, I’m certain it’s our honey-thief. What did you find out from the woman?”
“I couldn’t get her to say much, and I couldn’t understand half her dialect. She told me their name—Larue, I think. She said there were lots of ducks and muskrats in the slough, and they didn’t mind the mosquitos. And oh Carl! she had two of the most splendid black bear skins! I’d give anything to have them. The cabin was an awful place—like a pig-sty, but there were two children with the loveliest brown, dirty faces I ever saw.”
“Probably half French and half Ojibway or Chippewa,” said Carl. “Larue certainly sounds French enough. I’m afraid they’re a rough lot, and I’m sorry we have them for our nearest neighbors.”
They reached home in perfect safety, but the incident revived their former feelings of uneasiness. However, this wore away as the days and nights passed without disturbance; and Carl felt relieved to remember that Larue had seemed far more frightened at the encounter than he himself had been.
The weather was growing steadily warmer. Frequent rains brought vegetation forward with the marvelous rapidity of the northern summer. The little, pale, greenish flowers of the raspberry were almost open. And at last one morning Carl came dashing into the cabin with a shout:
“The bees are getting honey!”