SILAS STRONG, or "Panther Sile," as the hunters called him, spent every
winter in the little forest hamlet of Pitkin and every summer in the
woods.
Lawrence County was the world, and game, wood, and huckleberries the
fulness thereof; all beyond was like the reaches of space unexplored and
mysterious. God was only a word--one may almost say--and mostly part
of a compound adjective; hell was Ogdensburg, to which he had once
journeyed; and the devil was Colonel Jedson. This latter opinion, it
should be said, grew out of an hour in which the Colonel had bullied him
in the witness-chair, and not to any lasting resemblance.
As to Ogdensburg itself, the hunter had based his judgment upon evidence
which, to say the least, was inconclusive. When Sile and the city first
met, they regarded each other with extreme curiosity. A famous hunter,
as he moved along the street with rifle, pack, and panther-skin, Sile
was trying to see everything, and everything seemed to be trying to see
Sile. The city was amused while the watchful eye of Silas grew weary and
his bosom filled with distrust. One tipsy man offered him a jack-knife
as a compliment to the length of his nose, and before he could escape
a new acquaintance had wrongfully borrowed his watch. His conclusions
regarding the city were now fully formed. He broke with it suddenly, and
struck out across country and tramped sixty miles without a rest. Ever
after the thought of Ogdensburg revived memories of confusion, headache,
and irreparable loss. So, it is said, when he heard the minister
describing hell one Sunday at the little school-house in Pitkin, he had
no doubt either of its existence or its location.
All this, however, relates to antecedent years of our history--years
which may not be wholly neglected if one is to understand what follows
them.
After the death of his sister--the late Mrs. Gordon--Strong began to
read his Bible and to cut his trails of thought further and further
towards his final destination. A deeper reverence and a more correct
notion of the devil rewarded his labor.
It must be added that his meditations led him to one remarkable
conclusion--namely, that all women were angels. His parents had left him
nothing save a maiden sister named Cynthia, and characterized by some as
"a reg'lar human panther."
"Wherever Sile is they's panthers," said a guide once, in the little
store at Pitkin.
"Don't make no dif'er'nce whuther he's t' home er in the woods," said
another, solemnly.
That was when God owned the wilderness and kept there a goodly number of
his big cats, four of which had fallen before the rifle of Strong.
Cynthia, in his view, had a special sanctity, but there was another
woman whom he regarded with great tenderness--a cheery-faced maiden lady
of his own age and of the name of Annette.
To Silas she was always Lady Ann. He gave her this title without any
thought or knowledge of foreign customs. "Miss Roice" would have been
too formal, and "Ann" or "Annette" would have been too familiar.
"Lady Ann" seemed to have the proper ring of respect, familiarity, and
distinction. In his view a "lady" was a creature as near perfection as
anything could be in this world.
When a girl of eighteen she had taught in the log school-house. Since
the death of her mother the care of the little home had fallen upon
her. She was a well-fed, cheerful, and comely creature with a genius for
housekeeping.
June had come, and Silas was getting ready to go into camp. There was no
longer any peace for him in the clearing. The odor of the forest and the
sight of the new leaves gave him no rest. Had he not heard in his dreams
the splash of leaping trout, and deer playing in the lily-pads? In the
midst of his preparations, although a silent man, the tumult of joy in
his breast came pouring out in the whistled refrain of "Yankee Doodle."
It was a general and not a special sense of satisfaction which caused
him to shake with laughter now and then as he made his way along the
rough road. Sometimes he rubbed his long nose thoughtfully.
A nature-loving publisher, who often visited his camp, had printed some
cards for him. They bore these modest words: