’Kill ‘im?’ Uncle Eb asked.

‘Licked him,’ he said.

‘Huh!’ we remarked incredulously.

’Licked ‘im,’ he repeated chucking.  ’Went into his cave with a sledge stake an’ whaled ’im — whaled ’im ’til he run fer his life.’

Whether it was true or not I have never been sure, even to this day, but Ab’s manner was at once modest and convincing.

’Should ’a thought he’d ‘a rassled with ye,’ Uncle Eb remarked.

’Didn’t give ‘im time,’ said Ab, as he took out his knife and began slowly to sharpen a stick.

‘Don’t never wan’ t’ rassle with no bear,’ he added, ’but hams is too scurce here ‘n the woods t’ hev ’em tuk away ’fore ye know the taste uv ’em.  I ain’t never been hard on bears.  Don’t seldom ever set no traps an’ I ain’t shot a bear fer mor’n ‘n ten year.  But they’ve got t’ be decent.  If any bear steals my vittles he’s goin’ t’ git cuffed bard.’

Ab’s tongue had limbered up at last.  His pipe was going well and he seemed to have struck an easy grade.  There was a tone of injury and aggrievement in his talk of the bear’s ingratitude.  He snailed over his whittling as we laughed heartily at the droll effect of it all.

‘D’ye ever hear o’ the wild man ’at roams ‘round’n these woods?’ he asked.

‘Never did,’ said Uncle Eb.

’I’ve seen ’im more times ‘n ye could shake a stick at,’ said Ab crossing his legs comfortably and spitting into the fire.  ‘Kind o’ thank he’s the same man folks tells uv down ’n Paradise Valley there — ’at goes ’round ‘n the clearin’ after bedtime.’

‘The night man!’ I exclaimed.

’Guess thet’s what they call ‘im,’ said Ab.  ’Curus man!  Sometimes I’ve hed a good squint at ’im off ’n the woods.  He’s wilder ’n a deer an’ I’ve seen ’im jump over logs, half as high as this shanty, jest as easy as ye ‘d hop a twig.  Tried t’ foller ‘im once er twice but tain’ no use.  He’s quicker ‘n a wil’ cat.’

‘What kind of a lookin’ man is he?’ Tip Taylor asked.

‘Great, big, broad-shouldered feller,’ said Ab.  ’Six feet tall if he’s an inch.  Hed a kind of a deerskin jacket on when I seen ‘im an’ breeches an’ moccasins made o’ some kind o’ hide.  I recollec’ one day I was over on the ridge two mile er more from the Stillwater goin’ south.  I seen ‘im gittin’ a drink at the spring there ’n the burnt timber.  An’ if I ain’t mistaken there was a real live panther playin’ ’round ’im.  If ’t wa’n’t a panther ’twas pesky nigh it I can tell ye.  The critter see me fast an’ drew up ’is back.  Then the man got up quickerin’ a flash.  Soon ’she see me -Jeemimey! didn’t they move.  Never see no human critter run as he did!  A big tree hed fell ’cross a lot o’ bush right ’n his path.  I’ll be gol dummed if ’twan’t higher ’n my head!  But he cleared it — jest as easy as a grasshopper’d go over a straw.  I’d like t’ know wher he comes from, gol dummed if I wouldn’t.  He’s the consarndest queerest animal ‘n these woods.’