IT WAS MID-MORNING BEFORE ENOUGH LIGHT filtered through the pall of smoke to see more than a few yards. Even then the ashy air brought tears to any lingering gaze. Much of the slash and stumps in the valley had burned along with the lean-tos of wood and tin assembled by squatters. Men begrimed by smoke and soot moved to and fro across the valley's smoldering floor, gathering sludgy buckets of water from the creek to smother what gasps of fire lingered. From a distance, they appeared not so much like men as dark creatures spawned by the ash and cinder they trod upon. Had there not been rain the day before, every building in the camp would have burned.
Snipes' crew sat on the commissary steps. With them was McIntyre, whose proven talent as a sawyer had gotten him rehired. The lay preacher had not spoken a single word since his return, nor did he now as the crew observed the black square that was once the Pemberton's house. Snipes lit his pipe and took a reflective draw, let the smoke purl from his rounded lips as if some necessary precursor to what wisdom the lips were about to impart.
"An educated man such as myself would of knowed better than try to kill them in their natural element," Snipes mused.
"Fire, you mean?" Henryson asked.
"Exactly. That's like throwing water on a fish."
"What would you have done?"
"I'd of planted a wooden stake in their hearts," Snipes said as he tamped more tobacco into his pipe. "Most all your best authorities argue for it in such situations."
"I seen Sheriff Bowden cuffing up McDowell earlier," Henryson said. "He was hitting at him, but it looked like he was doing no more than swatting flies off of him. Much as he's wanting to be, the new high sheriff ain't in them other three's league."
"I doubt there's not a one north of hell itself that is," Ross exclaimed.
For a few moments the men grew silent, their eyes turning one pair at a time to look at McIntyre, who in previous times would have gleaned half a dozen impromptu sermons after hearing the other men's comments. But McIntyre stared fixedly across the wasteland at the bleary western horizon. Since his return, McIntyre's silence had been a matter of much speculation among the men. Snipes suggested the lay preacher's experience had caused McIntyre to adopt a vow of silence in the manner of monks of long-ago times. Stewart retorted that in the past McIntyre had been vehemently opposed to all manner of things popish, but conceded that perhaps the flying snake had changed his view on this matter. Henryson surmised that McIntyre was waiting for some particular revelation before speaking.
Ross said maybe McIntyre just had a sore throat.
Yet none of the men laughed or snickered when Ross made his quip, and Ross himself seemed to regret the remark as soon as it left his mouth, for they all believed, even Ross, the most cynical of men, that the lay preacher had been truly and irrevocably transformed.
LATE that morning after being treated by the doctor summoned from Waynesville, Serena and Pemberton dressed in denim breeches and cotton shirts gleaned from what sundries remained in the commissary. They sent a worker to town to buy clothing and toiletries the commissary could not furnish. Serena gathered some of the kitchen staff to prepare Campbell's old house for them while Pemberton went to make sure any stray fires had been put out. As he followed the fire's leaps and sidles, Pemberton found that though acres of slash and stumps had burned, not a single building aside from the house had been lost. After these tasks had been done, he and Serena lingered in the office.
"I probably should go and ride the ridge," Serena said, "just to make sure the cables are undamaged."
Pemberton looked at the bills and invoices on the desk, then got up.
"I'll go with you. The paperwork can wait."
Serena came around the desk and placed her bandaged hand on the back of Pemberton's neck. She leaned and kissed him deeply.
"I want you with me," Serena said, "not just this morning but all day."
They went to the stable and saddled their horses. Serena freed the eagle from its roost and they rode out of the stable. The noon sun shone on the train tracks, and even in the dingy light the linked metal gave off a muted gleam. Soon it would be time to pull up the rails, Pemberton knew, starting with the spurs and moving backward. He looked forward to taking off his shirt and working with the men again, asserting his strength. It seemed so long since he'd done that, spending all his days in the office, poring over numbers like some drudge in a bank. With Meeks settled in, he'd be able to get out more, especially at the new camp.
Warm ash blackened the horses' hooves and forelegs as Pemberton and Serena rode across the valley floor. They passed exhausted workers washing soot off their faces and arms, the men looking not so much like loggers as minstrels unmasking after a performance. The men did not speak, the only sound their hacking coughs. The last flames doused were where the cemetery had been, and smoke wisps rose there as if even the souls of the dead were abandoning the charred valley for some more hospitable realm.
Pemberton and Serena followed Rough Fork Creek to Shanty Mountain, halfway up when they heard a shout behind them and saw Meeks coming their way. The accountant had never ridden a horse before coming to the camp, and he kept his back bowed and head close to the mare's neck. When he caught up with the Pembertons, Meeks lifted his head and spoke softly, no doubt fearful a raised voice might cause the horse to bolt.
"Galloway called," he said to Serena.
Serena turned to Pemberton.
"I'll catch up with you in just a minute."
"No," Pemberton said. "I'll wait."
Serena looked at Pemberton's face a few moments, as if searching for some feature in it that might counter his words. Satisfied, she nodded.
"Tell us," she said to Meeks.
"Galloway's traced 'them,' whoever 'them' are, to Knoxville and they didn't buy a ticket," Meeks said with some exasperation. "He also said to tell you no freight train left before he arrived, so 'they' are evidently still there."
Meeks slowly lifted himself higher in the saddle to retrieve a piece of paper from his pocket.
"He told me a telephone number and said you needed to tell him what to do next."
"Go call him," Serena said, ignoring the proffered paper. "Tell him I said they've probably got no one there to stay with and no money, so he should start looking around Knoxville."
"I didn't realize I was also a receptionist," Meeks grumbled, then began his halting descent back to camp.
Pemberton and Serena did not stop again until they were on the mountain top. Smoke dimmed the sun to the color of tarnished copper, the light around them transformed as well, tinted like a daguerreotype. Serena untethered the eagle, raised her arm and lifted it skyward. The bird rose, its great wings beating as if pushing away not only air but the very earth itself. It veered left, caught an updraft for a moment, then continued the ascent.
Pemberton looked back at the camp, the blackened absence where the house had been. The chimney had crumbled but the steps remained intact, looking not so much like the last remnant of a house but instead steps constructed for a gallows. The ladderback chair where McDowell had sat still faced the steps.
Serena reined her horse closer to Pemberton, her leg brushing against his. He reached out his hand and caressed Serena's upper leg. Serena placed her hand on his and pressed firmly, as if wishing Pemberton's hand to leave its impression on her flesh.
"What shall we do about our former sheriff?" she asked.
"Kill him," Pemberton said. "I can do it if you want me to."
"No, Galloway can do it," Serena said, "as soon as he gets back from Tennessee."
Pemberton looked up and saw the eagle's circle had tightened. It had spotted something.
"What will it hunt in South America?"
"A snake the natives call a fer de lance," Serena said. "It's far more deadly than a rattlesnake."
"As for my hunting, it doesn't seem I'll get my mountain lion," Pemberton mused, "but a jaguar will surely be an equal challenge."
"One even more worthy of you," Serena said.
Pemberton gazed into Serena's pewter-gray irises, the specks of gold within them, then the pupils themselves. How long, Pemberton wondered, since he'd looked there, had the courage to accept such clarity.
"You're more the man I married than you've been for quite a while," Serena said.
"The fire reminded me about what matters."
"And what is that?"
"Only you," Pemberton said.
The eagle's shadow passed over them, then the bird flung itself earthward, landing fifty yards below. The bird jousted with its prey, the snake's rattles buzzing furiously at first but soon intermittent.
"That's forty-two it's killed since early April," Serena said. "I should take it over to Jackson County, let it kill some there before cold weather drives the snakes into their dens."
Serena took the metal whistle from the saddle pocket and blew, then swung the lure overhead. The bird ascended and with two great wing flaps glided up the ridge to land next to the horses, the dust-colored rattlesnake set down like a piece of slash. Pemberton's horse neighed and cantered backward and he had to jerk the reins, but the Arabian was so used to the bird and its prey that it did not even turn its head. The snake twisted onto its belly, and Pemberton saw where the bird's beak had opened the snake's midsection, tugged free strands of purple guts. The snake's tail rattled feebly a few moments more, then was still.
IT was two afternoons later when Pemberton heard the sound of Galloway's car as it bumped and rattled into camp. He went to the office window and watched Galloway rise stiffly from the car, a plum-colored stain darkening the left side of his face. The left eye socket was blackened, the eye just a slit. Galloway walked into the slash and stumps and searched with his good eye until he saw Serena. She was riding toward camp, the day over. Galloway hobbled up the ridge to meet her. With his gone hand and damaged face, he appeared a man who'd fallen sideways into some dangerous machine.
Pemberton sat back down. He told himself not to think about what Galloway's face might betoken of the child's fate. He made himself think instead about the fire, those moments flames had enclosed him and Serena, and how he did not know if they would live or die, but nothing else mattered except they'd live or die together. In a few minutes Galloway's car started up and drove off out of the valley. Serena came into the office.
"Galloway's going to visit our ex-sheriff," she said, but offered no explanation of Galloway's injuries, nor did Pemberton ask.
Serena paused and looked at the boxes of files stacked in the corner for the coming move.
"We've done well here," Serena said.
AT LEAST THERE ARE MOUNTAINS. THAT WAS what Rachel told herself as she and Jacob left the boarding house and walked up Madison Street. She stepped around a puddle. The rain that had fallen all day continued to fall as evening settled over the city. A gap in the buildings allowed Rachel a glimpse at the snow-capped peak of Mount Rainier. She lingered a few moments, took in the vista as she might a mouthful of cold spring water on a hot day.
She remembered the flat vastness of the midwest, particularly a depot in Kearney, Nebraska, where they'd waited two hours to change trains. She had taken Jacob for a walk down the town's one street. The houses quickly thinned out, then only fields of harvested wheat and corn beneath a wide sky. A landscape where no mountains rose to harbor you, give you shelter. She'd wondered how people could live in such a place. How could you not feel that everything, even your own heart, was laid bare?
Rachel walked toward the café where from five to midnight she was paid twenty cents an hour to wash dishes and clean off tables. Mr. and Mrs. Bjorkland let her lay Jacob on a quilt in the kitchen corner, and each night Mrs. Bjorkland gave Rachel big helpings of food to take home. Rachel passed enough destitute men and women on the streets every day to know how lucky she was to have a job, not to be hungry and in rags, especially after being in Seattle less than a month.
A car horn startled her, and she knew if she lived here the rest of her life she'd never get used to the busyness of town life, how something was always coming and going and whatever that something was always had a noise. Not soothing like the sound of a creek or rain on a tin roof or a mourning dove's call, but harsh and grating, no pattern to it, nothing to settle the mind upon. Except in the early morning, those moments before the city waked with all its grime and noise. She could look out the window at the mountains, and their stillness settled inside her like a healing balm.
Rachel crossed the street. On the other side, a policeman with a nightstick walked his beat. Farther down the block, a group of dispirited men lined up outside the Salvation Army building, waiting to go inside for a meal of beans and white bread, a soiled tick mattress to lay on the building's basement floor. A shock of curly red hair caught her eye at the front of the line. Rachel looked closer and saw the tall gangly body, no gray golf cap but the blue and black mackinaw coat. She hoisted Jacob in her arms and walked quickly down the street, but by the time she got there he was already inside. If it was him, because Rachel was already beginning to doubt what her eyes had seen, or thought they'd seen. She considered trying to get inside, but as she stepped closer to the entrance several of the men in line stared hard at her.
"The women's mission is over on Pike Street," a man with his front teeth missing said gruffly.
Rachel looked across the street at the theatre and checked the big clock at the center of the movie marquee, saw she had to leave or be late for work. As she walked back up the sidewalk toward the café, Rachel told herself she was just imagining things. Passing in front of the Esso station, she stepped over a puddle where gas and water swirled together to make an oily rainbow. The rain began to fall harder, and she quickened her pace, made it to the café door just as the bottom of the sky fell out and the rain came so hard she couldn't see the other side of the street.
"Let me hold Jacob for you so you can get your coat off," Mr. Bjorkland said as she came inside.
Mr. Bjorkland and his wife pronounced the child's name with an extra emphasis on the first syllable, as they did Rachel's own name. The names sounded gentler that way, and it seemed right to Rachel for the Bjorklands to speak in such a way, because it fit the kind of people they were.
"Here, to dry off with," Mrs. Bjorkland said, placing a towel on Rachel's shoulder.
Rachel went on into the kitchen and laid Jacob on the quilt. She opened her pocketbook and set the toy train engine beside the child. As she was about to snap shut her pocketbook, Rachel saw the folded piece of paper with a phone number and address. She opened the note and looked at the small precise handwriting you'd not expect from such a man. How much could you feel for someone you'd only spent six or seven hours with, she wondered. You couldn't call it love, but Rachel knew she felt something more than just gratitude. Rachel remembered the week she'd called the number night after night with no answer until, finally, the operator picked up and told Rachel the party she was trying to get in touch with was deceased. She held the note a moment longer and then placed it in a trashcan. She looked at Jacob. After I'm dead, she told herself, at least there'll be one other in the world who knows what Sheriff McDowell done for us.
She changed Jacob and gave him the warm bottle of milk she knew would soon slip from his mouth. Rachel took the cloth apron off the nail on the wall, tied it around her waist. For a moment she paused, feeling the kitchen's warmth, understanding something placid in it. A dry warm place on a cold rainy day and the smell of food and the slow soft breaths of a child drifting toward sleep. A safe harbor, Rachel told herself, and as she spoke those words to herself she remembered Miss Stephens describing Seattle while pointing to the far right side of the classroom's wide bright map.
Mr. Bjorkland came through the swinging doors.
"Get your dishwater ready," he said. "Saturday nights are the worst, so you'll earn your money this evening."
There was a clatter of pots and pans as Mr. Bjorkland readied the kitchen for the first order. Rachel glanced over at Jacob, his eyes already closed. He'd sleep soon, despite the din of pots and pans, the shouted orders and and all the other commotion.
IT WAS SNIPES' CREW WHO CUT THE LAST TREE. When a thirty-foot hickory succumbed to Ross and Henryson's cross-cut saw, the valley and ridges resembled the skinned hide of some huge animal. The men gathered their saws and wedges, the blocks and axes and go-devils. They paused a moment, then walked a winding path down Shanty Mountain. It was late October, and the workers' multi-hued overalls appeared woven from the valley's last leaves.
Once on level ground, the men stopped to rest beside Rough Fork Creek before trudging the mile back to camp. Stewart kneeled beside the stream and raised a handful of water to his lips, spit it out.
"Tastes like mud."
"Used to be this creek held some of the sweetest water in these parts," Ross said. "The chestnut trees that was up at the spring head give it a taste near sweet as honey."
"Soon you won't find one chestnut in these mountains," Henryson noted, "and there'll be nary a drop of water that sweet again."
For a few moments no one spoke. A flock of goldfinches flew into view, their feathers bright against the valley's floor as they winged southward. They swooped low and the flock contracted, perhaps in memory. For a few seconds they appeared suspended there, then the flock expanded like gold cloth unraveling. They circled the valley once before disappearing over Shanty Mountain, their passage through the charred valley as ephemeral as a candle flame waved over an abyss.
"Sheriff McDowell, he was a good man," Stewart said.
Ross nodded. He took out his papers and tobacco and began rolling a cigarette.
"We'll likely not see one better."
"That's the God's truth," Snipes agreed. "He never gave quarter when near about any other man would of. He fought them to the end."
A bemused smile settled on Henryson's face. He nodded his head as he looked west toward Tennessee, spoke softly.
"And to think the only ones ever to get away from them was a eighteen-year-old girl and a child. That's the wonder of it."
Ross looked up from his cigarette.
"Makes you think God glances this way every once in a while."
"So they got away for sure?" Stewart asked.
"Galloway ain't gone back out after them," Henryson said. "The light's been on at his stringhouse for a week now, and I seen him my ownself yesterday evening at the commissary."
"He wasn't of a mind to explain the whyever of his face being tore up, was he?" Snipes asked.
"No, he wasn't, and folks wasn't lining up to ask him about it neither."
Henryson studied the silted stream for a few moments before turning to Ross.
"Used to be thick with trout too, this here stream. There was many a day you and me took our supper from it. Now you'd not catch a knottyhead."
"There was game too," Ross said, "deer and rabbit and coons."
"Squirrels and bear and beaver and bobcats," Henryson added.
"And panthers," Ross said. "I seen one ten year ago on this very creek, but I'll never see ever a one on it again."
Ross paused and lit his cigarette. He took a deep draw and let the smoke slowly wisp from his mouth.
"And I had my part in the doing of it."
"We had to feed our families," Henryson said.
"Yes, we did," Ross agreed. "What I'm wondering is how we'll feed them once all the trees is cut and the jobs leave."
"At least what critters are left have a place they can run to," Henryson said.
"The park, you mean?" Stewart asked.
"Yes sir. Trouble is they ain't going to let us stay in there with them."
"They told my uncle over on Horsetrough Ridge he's got to be off his land by next spring," Stewart said, "and he's farther on the North Carolina side than us standing right here."
"Running folks out so you can run the critters in," Ross said. "That's a hell of a thing."
Snipes, who'd listened attentively but without comment, put on his glasses and looked out over the valley.
"Looks like that land over in France once them in charge let us quit fighting. Got the same feeling about it too."
"What kind of feeling?" Henryson asked.
"Like there's been so much killed and destroyed it can't ever be alive again. Even for them that wasn't around when it happened, it'd lay heavy on them too. It'd be like trying to live in a graveyard."
Ross nodded. "I was just over there three months when it was winding down, but you're right. They's a feeling about a place where men died and the land died with them."
"I missed that one," Henryson said. "The war, I mean."
"Don't worry," Snipes said. "Another one's always coming down the pike. That's something all your historians and philosophers agree on. A feller over in Germany looks to be ready to set a match to Europe soon enough, and quick as they snuff him out there'll be another to take his place."
"It's ever the way of it," Ross said.
Stewart looked at McIntyre.
"What do you think, Preacher?"
The others turned to McIntyre, not expecting him to reply but to see if any acknowledgment he'd been addressed crossed the man's face. McIntyre raised his eyes and contemplated the wasteland strewn out before him where not a single live thing rose. The other men also looked out on what was in part their handiwork and grew silent. When McIntyre spoke his voice had no stridency, only a solemnity so profound and humble all grew attentive.
"I think this is what the end of the world will be like," McIntyre said, and none among them raised his voice to disagree.
THE FOLLOWING EVENING PEMBERTON AND SERENA dressed for Pemberton's thirtieth birthday party. Most of the furniture was gone now, packed and hauled off to Jackson County. As Pemberton walked across the room to the chifforobe, his steps reverberated through every room in the house. A dozen workers remained in the camp-Galloway, some kitchen staff, the men taking up rails to reuse in Jackson County. The valley exuded an almost audible silence.
"Where's Galloway been these last few mornings?" Pemberton asked.
"Working, but you can't know why or where."
Serena went to the chifforobe, took out the green dress she'd worn to the Cecil's dinner party.
Pemberton smiled. "I thought we had no secrets."
"We don't," Serena said. "All will be revealed this very night."
"At the party?"
"Yes."
Serena slipped the dress over her head, let the silk slowly ripple and then smooth over skin free of any undergarment. With a quick brush of Serena's hands, the material succumbed to the curves of her body.
Pemberton moved in front of the mirror and knotted his tie. As he examined his handiwork, he saw Serena's reflection in the glass. She stood behind him, just to the left, watching. He straightened the knot and walked over to the bureau to get his cufflinks. Serena stayed where she was, looking at herself, now alone inside the mirror's oval. Her hair had grown out in the last year, touching her shoulders, but tonight it was braided in tight coils set upon her head, revealing a stark whiteness on the back of her neck. Pemberton checked the clock and saw with regret that it was almost time to meet their guests. Later, he thought, and moved to stand behind her. He laid his left hand on Serena's waist, lips brushing the whiteness of her neck.
"Just two weeks before you have one," Pemberton said, "your thirtieth birthday, I mean. I've always liked our birthdays being so near."
Pemberton moved closer so he'd see both their faces in the mirror. The green cloth felt cool to his touch.
"Would you have wished we shared a birthday as well?" Serena said.
Pemberton smiled, raised his hand and cupped her right breast. They could be a few minutes late. It was, after all, his party.
"Why wish for anything more," Pemberton said. "Being with each other is enough."
"Is it, Pemberton?"
The words were spoken in a cool skeptical manner that surprised him. For a moment Serena seemed about to say something more, but she didn't. She slipped from his grasp, left him standing alone in front of the mirror.
"It's time to go and meet our guests," she said.
Pemberton drained his glass of bourbon and poured another drink, drank it in a single swallow. He set the empty glass on the bedside table, and they walked out into the early autumn evening. Farther up the tracks, men pulled spikes with crowbars, groaning and grunting as they paired off and lifted the three-hundred-and-fifty-pound rails onto a flat car. Pemberton looked past the men to where only wooden crossties remained, some blackened by the fire, others not. They blended so well into the landscape as to be barely discernable. Pemberton remembered helping lay the rails across these same crossties, and he had a sudden sensation he was watching time reverse itself. The world blurred, and it seemed possible that the crossties would leap onto stumps and become trees again, the slash whirl upward to become branches. Even a dark blizzard of ash paling back in time to become green leaves, gray and brown twigs.
"What's wrong?" Serena said as he swayed slightly.
She gripped Pemberton's arm and time righted itself, again ran in its proper current.
"I guess I drank that last whiskey too fast."
The train came over the ridge. He and Serena moved closer to the track and met their guests as they stepped down from the coach car. Kisses and handshakes were exchanged, and hosts and guests walked into the office. Among them was Mrs. Lowenstein, who'd not been expected. Pemberton noted her pallor and thinness, how her eyes receded deep inside the sockets, accentuating the skull blossoming beneath her taut skin. Ten chairs had been placed around the table. The Salvatores and De Mans sat across from the Lowensteins and Calhouns, Serena and Pemberton at opposite ends.
"What an impressive table," Mrs. Salvatore said. "It looks to be a single piece of wood. Is that possible?"
"Yes, a single piece of chestnut," Pemberton answered, "cut less than a mile from here."
"I wouldn't have thought such a large tree existed," Mrs. Salvatore said.
"Pemberton Lumber Company will find even bigger trees in Brazil," Serena said.
"So you've shown us," Calhoun agreed, spreading his arms to show he meant all at the table. "And I must say in a very convincing fashion."
"Indeed," Mr. Salvatore said. "I'm a cautious man, especially with this continuing depression, but your Brazil venture is the best investment I've found since Black Friday."
The camp's remaining kitchen workers came into the room, serving as bartenders as well as waiters. Their clothes were fresh laundered but no different from what they normally wore. Investors preferred money spent cutting wood, not finery for workers, Serena had reasoned. The supper fare was similarly austere, roast beef and potatoes, squash and bread. Pemberton had armed a crew with fishing poles that afternoon to catch trout for an hors d' oeuvre, but the men returned from the creeks fishless, claming no trout remained in the valley or nearby ridges to catch. Only the French Chardonnay and Glenlivet scotch bespoke wealth, that and a box of Casamontez cigars set at the table's center.
"We must have a birthday toast," Calhoun announced once the drinks had been poured.
"First a toast to our new partnerships," Pemberton said.
"Go ahead then, Pemberton," Calhoun said.
"I defer to my wife," Pemberton said. "Her eloquence surpasses mine."
Serena raised her wineglass.
"To partnerships, and all that's possible," Serena said. "The world is ripe, and we'll pluck it like an apple from a tree."
"Pure poetry," Calhoun exclaimed.
They ate. Pemberton had drunk in moderation the last few weeks, but tonight he wanted the heightened exuberance of alcohol. Besides the bourbon at the house, he'd drained seven tumblers of scotch by the time his birthday cake was placed before him, the thirty lit candles set in a four-layer chocolate cake that took two workers to carry. Pemberton was surprised at the extravagance of Serena's gesture. The kitchen workers set ten saucers and a cutting knife to the right of the cake. Serena dismissed both workers after the coffee was poured and the cigars passed around.
"A cake worthy of a king," Lowenstein said admiringly as the cake's flickering light suffused Pemberton's face in a golden glow.
"A wish before you blow out the candles," Calhoun demanded.
"I need no wish," Pemberton said. "I've nothing left to want."
He stared at the candles and the swaying motions of the flames gave his stomach a momentary queasiness. Pemberton inhaled deeply and blew, taking two more breaths before the last candle was snuffed.
"Another toast," Calhoun said, "to the man who has everything."
"Yes, a toast," Lowenstein said.
They all raised their glasses and drank, except Serena.
"I disagree," Serena said as the others set their glasses down. "There's one thing my husband doesn't have."
"What would that be?" Mrs. De Man asked.
"The panther he hoped to kill in these mountains."
"Ah, too late," Pemberton said, and looked at the expired candles in mock regret."
"Perhaps not," Serena said to Pemberton. "Galloway has been out scouting for your panther the last week, and he's found it."
Serena nodded toward the open office door, where Galloway had appeared.
"Right, Galloway."
The highlander nodded as Pemberton paused in his cutting of the cake.
"Where?" Pemberton asked.
"Ivy Gap," Serena said. "Galloway's baited a meadow just outside the park boundary with deer carcasses. Three evenings ago the panther came and fed on one. Tomorrow it should be hungry again, and this time you'll be waiting for it."
Serena turned to address Galloway. As she did, Pemberton saw that a diminutive figure in a black satin bonnet stood behind him in the foyer.
"Bring her in," Serena said.
As mother and son entered the room, the old woman's wrinkled hand clutched Galloway's left wrist, covering the nub as if to foster an illusion that the hand attached to her son's arm might be his instead of her own. Mrs. Galloway's cedar-wood shoes clacked hollowly on the puncheon floor. She wore the same black dress that Pemberton had seen her in two summers ago.
"Entertainment for our guests," Serena said.
All at the table turned to watch the old woman totter into the room. Serena placed a chair next to Pemberton and gestured at Galloway to seat her. Galloway helped his mother into the chair. She undid her bonnet and handed it to her son, who remained beside her. It was the first time Pemberton had clearly seen the old woman's face. It reminded him of a walnut hull with its deep wavy wrinkles, dry as a hull as well. Her eyes stared straight ahead, clouded the same milky-blue as before. Galloway, the satin bonnet in his hand, stepped back and leaned against the wall.
Calhoun, his face blushed by alcohol, finally broke the silence.
"What sort of entertainment? I see no dulcimer or banjo. An a cappella ballad from the old country? Perhaps a jack tale?"
Calhoun leaned over to his wife and whispered. They both looked at the old woman and laughed.
"She sees the future," Serena said.
"Marvelous," Lowenstein said, and turned to his spouse. "We won't need our stockbroker any more, dear."
Everyone at the table laughed except the old woman and Serena. As the laughter subsided, Mrs. Lowenstein raised a purple handkerchief to her lips.
"Mrs. Galloway's talents are of a more personal nature," Serena said.
"Look out, Lowenstein," Calhoun retorted. "She may predict you're going to prison for tax evasion."
Laughter again filled the room, but the old woman appeared impervious to the jesting. Galloway's mother clasped her hands and set them on the table. Blue veins webbed the loose skin, and the nails were cracked and yellowed, yet neatly trimmed. Pemberton smiled at the thought of Galloway bent over the old crone, carefully clipping each nail.
"Who wants to go first?" Serena said.
"Oh, me please," Mrs. Lowenstein said. "Do I need to hold out my palm or does she have a crystal ball."
"Ask your question," Serena said, her smile thinning.
"Very well. Will my daughter get married soon?"
The old woman turned in the direction of Mrs. Lowenstein's voice and slowly nodded.
"Wonderful," Mrs. Lowenstein said. "I'll get to be a mother of the bride after all. I so feared Hannah would wait until I was pushing up daisies."
Mrs. Galloway stared in Mrs. Lowenstein's direction a few moments longer, then spoke.
"All I said was she'd get married soon."
An uncomfortable silence descended over the table. Pemberton struggled for a quip to restore the levity, but the alcohol blurred his thinking. Serena met his eyes but offered no help. Finally it was Mr. De Man, who'd said little the whole evening, who attempted to lessen the disquietude.
"What about Pemberton. It's his birthday we're here to celebrate. He should have his fortune told."
"Yes," Serena said. "Pemberton should go next. I even have the perfect question for him."
"And what is that, my dear?" Pemberton asked.
"Ask her how you'll die."
Mrs. Salvatore let out a soft oh, her eyes shifting between her husband and the door, which she appeared ready to flee through. Lowenstein took his wife's hand, his brow furrowed. He seemed about to say something, but Serena spoke first.
"Go ahead, Pemberton. For our guests' amusement."
Salvatore rose in his seat.
"Perhaps it's time for us to take leave and return to Asheville," he said, but Pemberton raised his hand and gestured for him to sit down.
"Very well," Pemberton said, raising his tumbler and giving his guests a reassuring grin. "But I'll finish my dram of liquor first. A man should have a drink in his hand when he confronts his demise."
"Well put," Calhoun said, "a man who understands how to meet his fate, with a belly full of good scotch."
The others smiled at Calhoun's remark, including Salvatore, who eased back into his chair. Pemberton emptied his tumbler and set it down forcefully enough that Mrs. Salvatore flinched.
"So how will I die, Mrs. Galloway?" Pemberton asked, his words beginning to slur. "Will it be a gunshot? Perhaps a knife?"
Galloway, who'd been gazing out the window, now fixed his eyes on his mother.
"A rope's more likely for a scoundrel like you, Pemberton," Calhoun said, eliciting chuckles all around.
The old woman turned her head in Pemberton's direction.
"No gun nor knife," she answered. "Nor rope around your neck."
"That's a relief," Pemberton said.
Except for the Salvatores, the guests laughed politely.
"What killed my father was his liver," Pemberton said.
"It ain't to be your liver," Mrs. Galloway said.
"So what, pray tell, is the thing that will kill me?"
"They ain't one thing can kill a man like you," Mrs. Galloway answered, and pushed back her chair.
Galloway helped his mother to her feet, and at that moment Pemberton realized it was all a jape. The others realized also as Mrs. Galloway took her son's arm and made her slow clatter across the room and disappeared into the darkened hallway. Pemberton raised his tumbler toward Serena.
"Splendid answer, and the best any man could hope for," he said. "A toast to my wife, who can play a rusty with the best of them."
Pemberton looked down the table's length and smiled at Serena as the others laughed and clapped. The alcohol made everyone else in the room hazy to Pemberton, but somehow not Serena. If anything, she appeared brighter, the dress vivid and shimmering. Evergreen. The word came to him now though he could not say why. He remembered the touch of his lips on the pale bareness of her neck and wished the guests hours gone. If they were, he wouldn't wait but would lift Serena onto the table and undress her on the Chestnut's heartwood. For a few moments, he thought of doing it anyway and giving Mrs. Salvatore a real case of the vapors.
All raised their glasses and drank. Calhoun, who'd drunk almost as much as Pemberton, wiped a dribble of scotch from his chin before pouring himself another drink.
"I must admit," Mrs. Calhoun said, "that from the way she put on there were a few moments I almost believed the old woman could see the future."
"She played her role well," her husband agreed. "Never a hint of a smile the whole time."
Pemberton lifted his watch from his pocket and opened the case with no attempt to hide his purpose. The watch hands wavered like compass needles, causing Pemberton to raise the watch closer to his face.
"It's been a wonderful evening," he said, "but it's time for our revelry to end if you're to be at the station when the Asheville train leaves."
"But you must open your present first," Serena said. "Galloway can call the depot in Waynesville and have them hold the train."
Serena lifted a long cylinder-shaped cardboard box from under the table. She passed the box to Pemberton and he opened the flap, slowly removed a rifle. Pemberton placed his hands under the stock and set the weapon before him so the others could see.
"A Winchester 1895," Serena said, "albeit a more personalized one, as you can see from the wood and gold trigger and plating. And the scrollwork, of course. In the Rockies it's the weapon of choice for hunting mountain lions."
Pemberton picked up the rifle and ran his hand over the wood's glossed finish.
"I know about this gun," he said. "It's the one Roosevelt called 'Big Medicine.'"
"Too bad Teddy didn't use it on himself," Calhoun said.
"Yes, but who knows," Pemberton said, raising the rifle toward the window and feigning disappointment when he squeezed the trigger and there was only a click. "Perhaps that cousin of his will show up, and I'll take a shot at him."
Pemberton handed the rifle to Mr. Salvatore. The gift slowly circled the table, the women passing it with palms underneath as if a platter, except for Mrs. De Man, who like the men jostled the rifle in her hands, nodding appreciatively at the gun's heft and sturdiness.
"The scrollwork, Mrs. Pemberton," Mr. Lowenstein said. "It's beautifully done, but I don't recognize the depiction."
"The shield of Achilles."
"Such a gun would do good service in Quebec with our brown bears," Mrs. De Man noted as she passed the rifle to her husband.
Pemberton filled his tumbler again, sloshing scotch onto the table as he poured. When the rifle was passed back to him, he leaned it against the table.
"I'll kill my mountain lion first," Pemberton boasted, "then a jaguar."
"Brazil," Lowenstein mused. "What an adventure for the two of you."
"Indeed," Calhoun said. "Forests enough for a lifetime and plenty left over."
Pemberton raised his hand and waved it dismissively.
"Give us a lifetime and Mrs. Pemberton and I will cut down every tree, not just in Brazil but in the world."
The words inside Pemberton's head were luminous enough, but he knew that he'd tried to say too much. Vowels and consonants had dragged and halted like gears that wouldn't mesh, the words hopelessly slurred.
Salvatore nodded at his wife and stood.
"We should be going now. Our train back to Chicago leaves rather early in the morning."
The other guests rose and made their goodbyes, began leaving as well. Pemberton tried to rise from his chair, but as he did the room tilted. He sat back down, focused his eyes and saw Serena still sat opposite him, the table lengthening out between them.
"See them to the train?" Pemberton asked. "Not sure I can."
Serena looked at him steadily.
"They know the way, Pemberton," Serena said, watching him steadily.
The room slowly leaned back and forth, not as bad as when he'd stood up, but enough to make him grip the table's edge, feel the smooth waxed wood against his palms. He gripped the table harder. An image almost like a dream came to him of being alone on a vast sea and hanging onto a piece of wood as waves lapped against him, and then he let go.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING PEMBERTON AWOKE with the worst hangover of his life. It was early, but what light filtered through the window stung his eyes. His tongue felt coated with a foul dust that had liquefied in his stomach. The previous evening returned in a series of blurry images that passed before him like boxcars come to unload freight he didn't want.
Serena still slept, so he turned on his side and closed his eyes but couldn't fall back asleep. He waited, not seeing but feeling the sun slowly brighten the room. After a while, Serena stirred beside him, her bare hip brushing against his. Pemberton could not remember if they'd coupled last night, or even how he'd gotten back to the house. He turned and looked at Serena through bleary eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Sorry about what?"
"Imbibing too much last night."
"It was your birthday, and you celebrated," Serena said. "There's no crime in that."
"But it may have cost us a couple of investors."
"I doubt it, Pemberton. Profits matter more than social graces."
Serena sat upright. The bed sheet fell away, and Pemberton saw her long slim back and the slight taper before the flare of her hips. She faced the window, and the morning sun fell lambent over her profile. Enough light to make his bloodshot eyes squint, but he did not turn away. How could anything else have ever mattered, Pemberton wondered. He reached out and held her wrist as Serena prepared to leave the bed.
"Not yet," he said softly.
Pemberton slid closer to wrap his other arm around Serena's waist. He pressed his face to the small of her back, closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of her.
"You need to get up," Serena said, freeing herself and leaving the bed.
"Why?" Pemberton asked, opening his eyes. "It's Sunday."
"Galloway said be ready by eleven," Serena replied, slipping on her breeches and riding jacket. "Your mountain lion awaits you."
"I'd forgotten," Pemberton said, and slowly sat up, the room leaning for a few moments then righting itself.
He rose, still groggy as he walked over to the chifforobe. He lifted his duckcloth pants and wool socks from the shelf, stripped his hunting jacket from a hanger. Pemberton tossed them on the bed, then retrieved his heavy lace-up hunting boots from the hall closet before sitting beside Serena, who was pulling on her jodhpurs. He closed his eyes, trying to stall the headache the morning light intensified.
"And you're fine here alone?" Pemberton said, his eyes still shut as he spoke.
"Yes, all I've got to do is make sure what's left in the kitchen and the commissary gets loaded on a railcar. But first I'll take the eagle out, a final hunt before we leave this place."
Serena rose, looking toward the door as she spoke.
"I have to go."
Pemberton reached for her hand, held it a moment.
"Thank you for the rifle, and the birthday party."
"You're welcome," Serena said, withdrawing her hand. "I hope you find your panther, Pemberton."
After Serena left, he contemplated going to the dining hall for breakfast, but his stomach argued against it. He dressed but for his boots, then lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes. For just a few minutes, he told himself, but Pemberton didn't wake until Galloway knocked on the door.
Pemberton yelled he'd be out in ten minutes and went to the bathroom. He filled the basin with cold water and plunged his whole head into it, kept it submerged as long as he could stand. He raised up and did the same thing again. The cold water helped. Pemberton toweled off and combed his hair so it lay sleek against his scalp, then he brushed his teeth as well to dim the nauseating smell of his own breath. He found the aspirin bottle on the medicine shelf and took out two, capped the bottle and put it in his pocket. As he was about to turn, he saw himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and his pallor could have been better, but his being up and about at all seemed a triumph considering how he'd felt earlier. Pemberton picked up his jacket from the bed and went into the front of the house where the new rifle lay on the fireboard. He couldn't remember setting it there last night, or being given the box of.35 caliber bullets beside it.
"Heard you had quite a evening of it," Galloway said as Pemberton stepped onto the porch, his face grimacing against the bright cloudless day.
Pemberton ignored Galloway's comment, focusing instead on Frizzell's truck parked beside the commissary. The photographer had set up his tripod on the railless track where the skidder boom had once sat, his camera aimed not at any worker living or the dead but the decimated valley itself. Frizzell hunched beneath his black shawl, oblivious to the fact that Serena, atop the gelding with the eagle on the pommel, rode toward him.
"What the hell is he doing?" Pemberton asked.
"No idea, but your missus looks to be going to find out," Galloway said and glanced skyward. "We need to be going. We got us a late start as it is."
"Go on to the car," Pemberton said, and handed the rifle and box of bullets to Galloway. "I'm going to find out what this is about."
Pemberton walked toward the commissary as Frizzell emerged from beneath the cloth, eyes blinking as if just awakened as he spoke with Serena. Pemberton passed the office, empty now, even the windows taken to the camp. The door was ajar, a few skittering leaves already wind-brushed inside.
"Secretary Albright's commissioned a photograph of the devastation we've wrecked upon the land," Serena said to Pemberton when he joined her. "A further way to justify his park."
"This land is still ours for another week," Pemberton said to Frizzell. "You're trespassing."
"But she just said I'm free to take all the photographs I wish," Frizzell objected.
"Why not, Pemberton," Serena said. "I'm pleased with what we've done here. Aren't you?"
"Yes, of course," Pemberton said, "but I do think Mr. Frizzell should compensate us with a photograph."
Frizzell's brow furrowed in surprise.
"Of this?" the photographer asked, his palm turned upward toward the valley.
"No, a photograph of us," Pemberton replied.
"I thought I made my views on such things clear at the Vanderbilt Estate," Serena said.
"Not a portrait, just a photograph."
Serena did not answer.
"Indulge me this one time," Pemberton said. "We have no photograph of us together. Think of it as a last birthday present."
For a few moments Serena did not respond. Then something in her countenance let go, not so much a softening as a yielding that Pemberton thought at first was resignation but then seemed more like sadness. He remembered the photographs she left in the Colorado house to burn, and wondered, for all her denying of the past, if some part of her yet dwelled on those photographs.
"All right, Pemberton."
Frizzell slid the negative plate from his last photograph into its protective metal sleeve and placed a new one in the camera.
"We'll need a less dreary backdrop, so I'll have to move my equipment," Frizzell said irritably.
"No," Pemberton said. "The backdrop is fine as it is. As Mrs. Pemberton says, we're pleased with what we've done here."
"Very well," Frizzell said, turning to Serena, "but surely you're not staying on your horse?"
"Yes," Serena said. "I am."
"Well," Frizzell said with utter exasperation, "if the photograph is blurred you'll only have yourselves to blame."
Frizzell disappeared under his shawl, and the photograph was taken. The photographer began packing his equipment as Galloway gave a long blast of his car horn.
"I'll have one of my men pick it up in Waynesville tomorrow," Pemberton said, lingering beside Serena.
"You need to go, Pemberton," Serena said.
She leaned in the saddle and pressed her hand against his face. Pemberton took her hand and pressed it to his lips a moment.
"I love you," he said.
Serena nodded and turned away. She rode off toward Noland Mountain, black puffs of lingering ash rising around the horse's hooves. Pemberton watched her a few moments and then walked to the car, but he paused before opening the passenger door.
"What is it?" Galloway asked.
"Just trying to think if there's anything else I may need."
"I got us food," Galloway said. "Got your hunting knife too. The Missus had me fetch it. It's in my tote sack."
As they left camp, Pemberton glanced up the ridge at Galloway's stringhouse, one of the few that hadn't yet been hauled to the new site. The old woman wasn't on the porch, was probably inside sitting at the table. Pemberton smiled as he thought of her prophecy, the way they'd all been taken in by her performance. They rode north, Galloway using his stub to guide the wheel when he shifted gears. Pemberton closed his eyes and waited for the aspirin to ease his headache.
After a while the Packard slowed and turned. Pemberton opened his eyes. Trees closed in around them. They bumped down into Ivy Gap, a swathe of private land just east of the park holdings. The car passed over a wooden plank bridge, and the automobile's vibration caused Pemberton's latent headache to return.
"Why don't you get a damn fender brace for this thing," Pemberton said, "that or slow down."
"Maybe it'll shake that hang over out of your head," Galloway said, swerving to avoid a washout.
They passed a harvested cornfield where a scarecrow rose, wide-armed as if forsaken. A pair of doves fluttered up amid the tatter of broken stalks and shucks, resettled. Pemberton knew men hunted them but could not imagine what satisfaction came from killing something hardly larger than the shell you shot with. The woods thickened until the road did not so much end as give up, surrendering to scrub oaks and broom sedge. Galloway stopped and jerked the handbrake.
"We'll have to hoof it the rest of the way."
They got out and Galloway took a tote sack from the back seat. Pemberton retrieved his rifle and opened the box of bullets, lifted out a handful and stuffed them in a jacket pocket. Galloway swung the tote sack over his shoulder.
"Anything else?" Pemberton asked.
"No," Galloway said, starting down the hint of road that remained. "All we need's in this tote sack."
"You have the car keys?"
"Got them," Galloway said, patting his right pants pocket.
"Give me my knife."
Galloway opened the tote sack and handed Pemberton the knife.
"Where's the sheath?"
"I reckon it's still in that drawer," Galloway said.
Pemberton cursed softly at Galloway's oversight, placed the hunting knife in the jacket's side pocket.
Pemberton and Galloway moved deeper into the gorge, crossing a spring bog and then a creek. They moved through a stand of tulip poplars whose yellow leaves shimmered the forest floor with new-fallen brightness. The land made a last steep drop, and they entered the meadow, tufts of broom sedge giving the open landscape a luster to rival the surrounding trees. A deer lay in the meadow's center, little left but rags of fur and bones. Galloway opened the tote sack and removed a dozen ears of corn, placed them in a full circle as if to enclose the carcass. Pemberton wondered if Galloway was enacting some primitive hunting ceremony, something learned from the Cherokee or done centuries ago in Albion, the kind of thing that had so fascinated Buchanan.
"That panther fed on this deer pretty good, didn't it," Galloway said.
"It appears so."
"I figured it would," Galloway said, taking a hawkbill knife from his right pocket.
Galloway walked over to the meadow edge where a bed sheet hung from a dogwood branch, its four corners knotted to hold something sagging within. He methodically freed the knife blade, then sliced open the bed sheet. A dead fawn spilled onto the ground. Galloway picked up a back leg and dragged the fawn to the meadow's center, set it beside the other carcass.
"This way even if the corn don't draw a deer, that cat will have something to gnaw on," Galloway said, and pointed halfway up the far ridge where a granite outcrop pushed out of the slantland like a huge fist. "There's a flat place on that biggest rock, even has a cave goes back in it a ways on the nigh end. You can set there and see this whole meadow, and it's high enough for that cat not to smell you. Some deer should show for them corn shucks come the shank of evening, and that panther won't be far behind."
Pemberton looked at the ridge dubiously. There was no discernable way up, nothing but mountain laurel and rock.
"Is there a path?"
"Not but the one we'll make getting there," Galloway said. "Mountain laurel covers up a place so fast you've barely got time to look behind and see your own footprints."
"There's not an easier way?"
"Not to my knowing," Galloway replied. "I'll haul that rifle in the crook of my arm if you want. Might make it easier for you."
"I'll carry my own damn gun," Pemberton said.
Galloway stepped into the mountain laurel. The plants quickly enveloped him up to the chest. Pemberton followed, gripping the rifle just below the trigger, the barrel held skyward so that only the stock brushed the plants. Galloway stepped through the tangles with no attempt to watch where his feet set down. The laurel soon became sparser as the land's angle increased. The sun was at their back, and its heat settled directly on the ridge. Pemberton's hunting outfit had not been uncomfortable in the woods, but here only a few stunted fir grew, nothing to give any shade. They moved around the barn-wide rock. The soil was loose, thinned by granite Pemberton now realized was the undersurface of the whole mountainside. Galloway gauged his steps, moving a few yards sideways to find where the foothold would be best. Pemberton's breath became labored. When he had to stop and rest, Galloway looked back.
"If you're not born to this skinny air a fellow will lose his breath easy up here."
They stood a minute in the outcrop's shadow. Galloway studied the jut of rock and pointed to his right.
"Seems last fall that I went around that side."
Galloway stepped edgewise and angled his way out of the rock's shadow, no soil beneath their feet, only granite. The last few yards Pemberton leaned forward and used his free hand to keep from slipping. The granite was hot to his touch. A thought crossed his mind that this could be another of Serena's japes. When they were almost level with the outcrop, Galloway veered a few steps more to the right and stopped where a spring flow created a natural basin. The older man sat by the pool and laid the tote sack beside him. Pemberton sat as well and tried to slow his panting. Below, the whole meadow unfurled, beyond it to the west Sterling Mountain that marked park land. Galloway pulled two sandwiches from the sack, unwrapped the butcher's paper and inspected one.
"This is turkey," he said, and offered Pemberton the other. "Your missus said you was partial to beef on your sandwiches. She had the cook slab it up good with mustard too."
Pemberton took the sandwich and ate. It wasn't particularly good, too much mustard and the bread tasted moldy, but despite the hangover he found the hike and bear crawl up the ridge had given him an appetite. He finished the sandwich and cupped his hand in the creek and drank, as much to wash the sandwich's taste from his mouth as thirst.
"That spring up top gives cold water even in the dog days," Galloway said. "You'll not find better water."
"It's damn sure better than that sandwich."
"A shame it's not to your liking," Galloway said, feigning disappointment, "especially after the missus made it up special for you."
Pemberton cupped his hand and drank more. The sandwich did not sit well on his stomach, and he hoped the cold water might help.
The sun was full upon them, and the granite gathered the midday heat and held it in the rock gaps. Pemberton yawned and might have napped a few minutes, but his guts began cramping and nausea followed. He thought of last night's drinking and wished again he'd been more moderate.
He checked his watch. Almost three o'clock. Galloway opened the tote sack and removed a plug of tobacco and the hawkbill, which he unlocked by setting his foot on the handle, using thumb and forefinger to free the blade. Then he set the plug on his knee, picked up the knife and slowly pressed the blade into the tobacco. Galloway placed the larger portion back into the sack, locked the knife and put it back as well. Each step was done with the solemnity and preciseness of ritual.
"Best go ahead and get up on that ledge," Galloway said.
Pemberton studied the outcrop.
"How do I get up there?"
"Stand on that smaller rock," Galloway said, pointing with his hand. "Then put your foot in that crack above it."
"Then what?"
"You got to hoist yourself the rest of the way. Grab hold of the ledge with your left hand, then drape your yonder leg up and hoist yourself over. It's flat as a skillet on top, so you ain't going to roll off."
Pemberton scanned the far edge of the meadow, searching for a glint of binoculars. He turned to Galloway, who examined the cut of tobacco as if searching for some flaw in it.
"If this is a rusty Mrs. Pemberton put you up to…"
Galloway met Pemberton's eyes. He lifted the black plug of tobacco to his mouth and used his index finger to tuck the wad behind his back molars. Only then did Galloway speak.
"It ain't no rusty."
Galloway brushed a few loose stems of the tobacco off his jeans but made no move to get up. He looked into the spring as if searching for something.
"I'd be of a mind to get on up there if I was you," Galloway said. "Won't be too long before the meadow starts to shadow up. Soon as it happens that panther will start making his way out of the park."
Galloway squirted a brown stream of tobacco juice into the spring and stood.
"When you get up there, I'll hand you your gun. It'll be easier that way."
Pemberton studied the outcrop, imagining foot and hand placements. There appeared to be no other way. He gave the rifle to Galloway and climbed up on the smaller rock, raised his left hand to grip the ledge top's surface. He put his full weight on the rock to make sure it was steady, then placed one boot toe in the crevice. As Pemberton lifted the other foot, he raised his right hand and placed it beside the left. Pemberton took a deep breath and kicked his right leg over the outcrop and rolled onto the ledge, arms spread outward so that he turned over only once, faced the sky.
A buzzing filled the air, and Pemberton first thought he'd disturbed a hornet's nest. He felt a stinging in his calf and raised his head to see a rattlesnake retracting into its coil. Three other snakes coiled less than a yard from where he lay, filling the air with their warnings. One of the snakes lunged and Pemberton felt its fangs strike his boot, snag a moment, and pull free. Then he was rolling off the ledge, hitting first the smaller rock and then the ground and then sliding and tumbling farther down the ridge. Pemberton stalled his descent a moment by clutching a sapling, but the roots jerked free from the thin soil and he continued tumbling downward until level land and mountain laurel stopped him.
Pemberton did not move as he waited for his body to tell him what damage had been done. His left ankle throbbed, and one glance at its odd angle told him the ankle was broken. Two, maybe three ribs were cracked as well. The hunting knife had opened a deep gash in his arm. Pemberton told himself he would be all right, but at that moment the venom that coursed through his veins announced itself, and not just in the leg. He could taste the poison in his mouth, though Pemberton couldn't understand how this was possible.
He stared upward, and for a moment Pemberton had the sensation that he was actually falling away from the earth and toward the sky. He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he felt the earth solid beneath him. Pemberton raised his arm and saw the bleeding had not stopped. But at least not an artery, he told himself. Pemberton took a handkerchief from his back pocket and pressed it against the gash. The cloth quickly saturated, so he took a pair of wool socks from his jacket and pressed them against the wound. The socks were soon blood-soaked as well, but when he removed them the bleeding had lessened.
He touched his jacket pocket tentatively. The knife was still there, though its blade had cut hilt-deep through the lining. Pemberton placed his right hand inside the pocket, let his palm cover the elk-bone handle. He found the knife handle's solidity reassuring and did not loosen his grip.
A long time passed before Galloway made his way down the ridge and stood above him. The highlander seemed content to stand and gawk for the rest of the afternoon. Pemberton let go of the knife and pulled himself to a sitting position.
"You're about tore up as a fellow can get," Galloway said. "Lost a lot of blood too from the looks of it."
"Help me up," Pemberton said, and held out his arm.
Galloway lifted Pemberton to his feet, but once up the poisoned leg and broken ankle made it impossible for him to stand without help. Galloway put his arm around Pemberton's waist.
"Get me into the meadow."
Galloway helped him through the mountain laurel and onto the open ground, eased Pemberton into a sitting position amid the broom sedge.
"A rattlesnake bit me," Pemberton said.
He pulled up his right pant leg. Just above the boot, two small holes broke the skin, the flesh puffy and streaked red around the punctures. The taste of venom lingered in his mouth while sweat seemed to seep from every pore in his body. A tingling began in his fingers and toes, and Pemberton wondered if the bite caused this as well. Galloway squatted beside Pemberton and peered closely at the bite mark.
Pemberton took the hunting knife from his jacket and cut the pant leg from the thigh all the way through the cuff. The cloth fell away like a loose layer of skin.
"Won't do much good," Galloway said. "That poison has done got in your veins."
"I might get some of it out," Pemberton said, and pressed the blade tip on the bite mark.
Galloway placed his hand over Pemberton's.
"Let me cut. I done it before."
Pemberton released the knife and Galloway lifted the blade from the flesh. He studied the wound, then probed around it with the knife tip.
"Cut, damn it," Pemberton said.
Galloway methodically cut an X across the bite. He cut deep. Too deep, Pemberton suspected.
"That snake got you good," Galloway said as he raised the knife from Pemberton's flesh. "Sometimes they'll dry bite you, but this one's give you the full dose."
The two men stared at the leg as it continued to redden and swell. Pemberton remembered how Jenkins' leg had blackened and begun to stink. But he was a bigger man than Jenkins, and that would help dilute the poison. For the first time since he'd seen the snake on the ledge, Pemberton realized how dire the situation could have been. If he'd rolled onto several of the rattlesnakes or hadn't reached for the sapling, he could be dying, if not already dead. Pemberton felt a sudden heightened aliveness, the same as when he'd survived Harmon's bowie knife and the bear's teeth and claws. What he'd felt most of all that moment he and Serena held each other outside the burning house. Even the pain in his belly and leg and arm could not dim his euphoria.
Galloway wiped the blade on the tote sack. He laid the knife on the cloth and squatted. Pemberton knew some said you needed to suck the poison out, but he couldn't do it and damned if he'd let Galloway's rotten mouth try. Instead, Pemberton pressed the skin around the wound, squeezing out as much blood as possible. He stripped the leather bootlace from the eyelets and tied a tourniquet above the kneecap. Even without the lace, the right foot was so swollen that he had to turn and twist the boot to get it off. When Pemberton finally freed the boot from his foot, he peeled off the sock as well. He touched his foot, and the skin appeared ready to split open like fruit swollen past ripeness. His stomach felt as if he'd swallowed a bottle of lye. Galloway squatted nearby, his eyes on Pemberton, attentive.
"I won't be able to walk out of here," Pemberton said, and felt a wave of chills ripple through his body.
"And I couldn't haul you out even if I had a mind to," Galloway said.
Pemberton's temples ached as if gripped by metal tongs. The taste of the venom intensified and his stomach spasmed.
"Damn stomach," Pemberton gasped, then paused a moment. "I'd not think a snake bite would cause that."
"It don't," Galloway said. "I reckon that sandwich is what's bothering your guts."
Galloway didn't look at Pemberton as he spoke. He looked west toward the park land.
"You're gonna be in this meadow a while."
"Where's my rifle?"
"Guess I left it up there at the cliff rock," Galloway said.
Pemberton cursed.
"Take the car and go find a phone," Pemberton said, his voice tightening when a new wave of pain hit. "Call Bowden and tell him to fetch a doctor and get up here. Then go on to the camp and find Serena. She'll tell you what else to do."
Galloway did not reply at first. He instead stepped over to the tote sack and placed the hunting knife inside, used his fingers and thumb to slip the sack through his belt and make a knot. It was done so deftly as to appear one fluid motion.
"She already has," Galloway said, "told me what to do, I mean. Which is why I'll be leaving you here."
For a few moments Pemberton did not understand. His guts contracted with such force he grabbed his stomach, fingernails breaking the skin as if trying to dig out the pain's source. He shivered violently, and the pain lessened only to return again just as intensely. Pemberton felt lightheaded, almost ready to faint, and he wondered if that might be as much from the loss of blood as the venom.
"Must be that sandwich your Missus made special for you," Galloway said. "She mixed some rat poison into the mustard, then added some of that Paris Green to sweeten it. I asked her what if you tasted the poison, but she said men never noticed nothing that wasn't square in front of them. Guess she was right about that."
Galloway paused and wiped a dribble of tobacco juice from his chin. Pemberton felt blood inside his mouth and knew his gums bled. He spit out some of the blood so he could speak, but Galloway began talking again.
"She said to tell you she thought you the one man ever strong and pure enough to be her equaling, but you wanting that child alive showed the otherwise of that."
Pemberton closed his eyes a few moments and tried to focus through the pain. He tried to understand what Galloway was telling him, but it seemed too much. He tried to settle on one thing.
"How'd she find out?"
"Mama told her that day I was in Kingsport, but your missus didn't believe it. It was Sheriff McDowell set her straight. That day I went to visit him in the jail. He even told me the exact dollar amount you give him so she could check it against the ledgers and know he wasn't lying."
"Just you? He didn't tell Bowden?"
"Bowden run out the back door before I even got started good. He was out there vomiting. He didn't come back in till I was through."
"Telling about the child," Pemberton said. "McDowell thought it would save his life?"
"No," Galloway said, frowning slightly as he shook his head. "He knowed what the truth of it was the second I come in that cell. He knowed he was a dead man."
Pemberton looked into Galloway's eyes and knew he was seeing the same flat stare McDowell had seen.
"Did McDowell know where they are?"
"I believe he did," Galloway said, "at least where they went from Knoxville."
"But he didn't tell you?"
"I knowed McDowell wasn't going to offer up where they was. Oh, I whittled on him a good bit, enough to where any another man would have give up his own mama, but he wouldn't tell."
Galloway paused and scratched the end of his stump, became more reflective.
"He deserved better than he got, McDowell did. He lived and died by his own rights. If I had it to do over, I'd as lief have killed him quick."
Galloway took the wad of tobacco from his mouth and examined it a moment, threw it toward the mountain laurel. Pemberton squeezed his eyes shut. Words came harder now, the smooth glide of thought from brain to tongue ruptured. He formed a sentence and held it in his mind a few moments so it might clarify.
"Why'd he tell you about me helping him?"
"I'm of a mind he figured it'd be a way of getting at least one of you killed," Galloway said. "I reckon he was right about that."
Pemberton did not speak for a few moments. He thought of the child in the sheriff 's office and tried to recall something besides the intense brown eyes. He remembered the child's hair. It hadn't been blonde but dark like his own.
"So the child's safe."
"Mama says he is, him and the Harmon girl both, but that's all Mama can tell me. They's got so far away she can't get them in her mind no more. That trail's went colder than a well digger's ass."
Galloway paused and his countenance appeared almost wistful. He raised his nub and brushed a bead of sweat from his forehead. Galloway stepped closer and kneeled next to Pemberton. He took the hawkbill knife from his pocket and freed the blade with the same slow deliberateness he might undo a bow. The blade clicked as it locked into place.
"Your missus said she didn't want you suffering any more than you had to," Galloway said, "but I can't kill you quick after the way I done the sheriff. It'd lay too heavy on my conscience."
The hawkbill slashed down, cutting open Pemberton's front pant pocket and freeing the twenty-dollar gold piece. Galloway picked up the coin.
"I will take this though," he said, placing it in his pocket. "I figured I earned it."
"Is there a panther?" Pemberton asked.
"You'll know the truth of that in a few hours," Galloway said, and nodded toward the park. "That cat will come across the ridge there and to the left of that cliff hang. It'll smell your blood and soon enough come on down and have a visit."
Galloway lifted the tote sack and swung it over his shoulder. He headed across the meadow, moving in the same shambling manner as before. I'll remember that slow saunter, Pemberton told himself, I'll remember it the very moment I kill him. Galloway stopped and turned.
"One other thing she wanted me to tell you. Your coffin, she said to tell you she's going to order it special from Birmingham. Your missus said she owed you that."
In a few minutes Galloway entered the woods. Pemberton caught glimpses of him through the trees and then a short while later as Galloway followed the trail over the rise. Then he was gone.
Pemberton reached for the gold chain on his pocket watch. He tugged until the watch emerged. When the gold shell opened, two half-moons of glass fell to the ground, but the watch still worked. The hands were on the three and six. Pemberton followed the almost imperceptible drag of the minute hand moving across the watch face toward the seven. He watched the minute hand as intently as possible, thinking if he could see time pass it would somehow make a difference.
But the pain was too much to concentrate more than a few seconds. His whole leg was now swollen, the pain constant all the way to the hip. The leg muscles began to spasm, as if the limb were frantically trying to shake out the venom. Pemberton's stomach heaved and he was glad since that might expel some of the poison, but when he looked at the ground he saw what had come forth was blood. His ribs and ankle hurt as well, but they were afterthoughts, as was his thirst. He'd have to wait the poison out a few hours, let it ease enough to limp out of the gorge.
Pemberton turned so he could face west. He tried to think of something besides the pain. He studied the Smokies as they unfolded into Tennessee. How many millions of board feet of timber were in those mountains, Pemberton wondered. The nausea returned, and more blood brightened the ground when he vomited. His mouth tasted of copper, and he thought of veins of copper and stream beds of jewels inside the Smokies. He thought especially of Cade's Cove, where old-growth yellow poplars yet remained. The tune the workers sang about the big rock candy mountain came into his head and lingered a few moments before dissipating.
Pemberton passed out, and when the pain woke him the day waned. The sun leaned its shoulder into the ridge, and shadows sortied out from the woods into the meadow. Pemberton could smell the leg, its skin now fiery red from kneecap to toes. The limb was dying, would soon enough be black and festering. Pemberton knew he'd lose it, but that would be all right. He could spend his working day on horseback, as Serena did.
His vision blurred and each breath came harder. Pemberton decided he had to start making his way across the meadow. He'd get as far up the trail as he could before full dark and then rest until dawn. They'd crossed a creek halfway down. He'd drink enough water there to get him the rest of the way.
Pemberton pressed both hands to the earth and dragged himself forward a few feet. The broken ankle announced itself anew, and he had to lay his head against the earth a minute. He tried to move again, and when he did the world gave way beneath him, as if trying to pull away. Pemberton clutched a hank of broom sedge and held tight. He remembered the afternoon he'd followed McDowell's police car out to the Deep Creek turnoff. How he'd sat there in the Packard with his hand on the hard rubber ball, and how, for a few moments, it had been like having the world in his grasp.
In half an hour, Pemberton was in the meadow's center. He rested and tried to gain up some strength. It was the only way, he told himself, not so much to survive as prove to Serena he was strong enough after all, worthy of her. If he could just make it back to camp, then everything could be again as it once was.
Shadows fell over him. The festering leg was like dragging a log, and Pemberton imagined the leg gone, how unburdened and free he'd be. If I had the knife I'd cut it off right now, Pemberton told himself, leave it and go on my way. Pemberton retched, but nothing rose into his throat. The world shuddered, tried again to tear free. He grabbed another fistful of broom sedge and held on.
When he regained consciousness, it was twilight. A cry like that of an infant came from the meadow's edge. Jacob, he thought, still safe, still alive. Pemberton raised his head toward the sound, but his vision had receded into some part of himself so deep no light could enter. A few minutes later he heard something brushing the broom sedge, moving resolutely toward him, and Pemberton suddenly knew, knew more surely than he'd ever known anything, that Serena had come for him. He remembered the evening in Boston when Mrs. Lowell had introduced them, and Serena had smiled and reached out her hand to take his. A new beginning, now as well as then. Pemberton could not see or speak, but he opened his hand and let go of the broom sedge, let go of the earth itself as he waited to feel Serena's firm calloused hand embrace his.