Serena stood beside him now.
"Your arm," she said.
Pemberton saw that his poplin shirt was slashed below the elbow, the blue cloth darkened by blood. Serena unclasped a silver cuff link and rolled up the shirtsleeve, examined the cut across his forearm.
"It won't need stitches," she said, "just iodine and a dressing."
Pemberton nodded. Adrenaline surged through him and when Buchanan's concerned face loomed closer, his partner's features-the clipped black hedge of moustache between the pointed narrow nose and small mouth, the round pale-green eyes that always looked slightly surprised-seemed at once both vivid and remote. Pemberton took deep measured breaths, wanting to compose himself before speaking to anyone.
Serena picked up the bowie knife and carried it to Harmon's daughter, who leaned over her father, hands cradling the blank face close to hers as if something might yet be conveyed to him. Tears flowed down the young woman's cheeks, but she made no sound.
"Here," Serena said, holding the knife by the blade. "By all rights it belongs to my husband. It's a fine knife, and you can get a good price for it if you demand one. And I would," she added. "Sell it, I mean. That money will help when the child is born. It's all you'll ever get from my husband and me."
Harmon's daughter stared at Serena now, but she did not raise a hand to take the knife. Serena set the bowie knife on the bench and walked across the platform to stand beside Pemberton. Except for Campbell, who was walking toward the platform, the men leaning against the livestock barn's railing had not moved. Pemberton was glad they were there, because at least some good might come from what had happened. The workers already understood Pemberton was as physically strong as any of them, had learned that last spring when they'd put down the train tracks. Now they knew he could kill a man, had seen it with their own eyes. They'd respect him, and Serena, even more. He turned and met Serena's gray eyes.
"Let's go to the camp," Pemberton said.
He placed his hand on Serena's elbow, turning her toward the steps Campbell had just ascended. Campbell's long angular face was typically enigmatic, and he altered his path so as not to walk directly by the Pembertons-done so casually someone watching would assume it wasn't deliberate.
Pemberton and Serena stepped off the platform and followed the track to where Wilkie and Buchanan waited. Cinders crunched under their feet, made gray wisps like snuffed matches. Pemberton gave a backward glance and saw Campbell leaning over Harmon's daughter, his hand on her shoulder as he spoke to her. Sheriff McDowell, dressed in his Sunday finery, stood beside the bench as well. He and Campbell helped the girl to her feet and led her into the depot.
"Is my Packard here?" Pemberton asked Buchanan.
Buchanan nodded and Pemberton addressed the baggage boy, who was still on the platform.
"Get the grips and put them in the back seat, then tie the smaller trunk onto the rack. The train can bring the bigger one later."
"Don't you think you'd better speak to the sheriff?" Buchanan asked after he handed Pemberton the Packard's key.
"Why should I explain anything to that son-of-a-bitch?" Pemberton said. "You saw what happened."
He and Serena were getting in the Packard when McDowell walked up briskly behind them. When he turned, Pemberton saw that despite the Sunday finery the sheriff wore his holster. Like so many of the highlanders, the sheriff's age was hard to estimate. Pemberton supposed near fifty, though the sheriff's jet-black hair and taut body befitted a younger man.
"We're going to my office," McDowell said.
"Why?" Pemberton asked. "It was self-defense. A dozen men will verify that."
"I'm charging you with disorderly conduct. That's a ten-dollar fine or a week in jail."
Pemberton pulled out his billfold and handed McDowell two fives.
"We're still going to my office," McDowell said. "You're not leaving Waynesville until you write out a statement attesting you acted in self-defense."
They stood less than a yard apart, neither man stepping back. Pemberton decided a fight wasn't worth it.
"Do you need a statement from me as well?" Serena said.
McDowell looked at Serena as if he hadn't noticed her until now.
"No."
"I would offer you my hand, Sheriff," Serena said, "but from what my husband has told me you probably wouldn't take it."
"He's right," McDowell replied.
"I'll wait for you in the car," Serena told Pemberton.
When Pemberton returned, he got in the Packard and turned the key. He pressed the starter button and released the hand brake, and they began the six-mile drive to the camp. Outside Waynesville, Pemberton slowed as they approached the saw mill's five-acre splash pond, its surface hidden by logs bunched and intertwined like kindling. Pemberton braked and slipped the Packard out of gear but kept the engine running.
"Wilkie wanted the saw mill close to town," Pemberton said. "It wouldn't have been my choice, but it's worked out well enough."
They looked past the splash pond's stalled flotilla of logs awaiting dawn when they'd be untangled and poled onto the log buggy and sawn. Serena gave the mill a cursory look, as well as the small A-frame building Wilkie and Buchanan used as an office. Pemberton pointed to an immense tree rising out of the woods behind the saw mill. An orange growth furred the bark, and the upper branches were withered, unleafed.
"Chestnut blight."
"Good that it takes them years to die completely," Serena said. "That gives us all the time we need, but also a reason to prefer mahogany."
Pemberton let his hand settle on the hard rubber ball topping the gear shift. He put the car into gear and they drove on.
"I'm surprised the roads are paved," Serena said.
"Not many are. This one is, at least for a few miles. The road to Asheville as well. The train would get us to camp quicker, even at fifteen miles an hour, but I can show you our holdings this way."
They were soon out of Waynesville, the land increasingly mountainous, less inhabited, the occasional slant of pasture like green felt woven to a rougher fabric. Almost full summer now, Pemberton realized, the dogwood's white blossoms withered on the ground, the hardwood's branches thickened green. They passed a cabin, in the side yard a woman drawing water from a well. She wore no shoes and the towheaded child beside her wore pants cinched tight by twine.
"These highlanders," Serena said as she looked out the window. "I've read they've been so isolated that their speech harks back to Elizabethan times."
"Buchanan believes so," Pemberton said. "He keeps a journal of such words and phrases."