"Be careful there, Stewart," Snipes said, "or you'll piss on Dunbar 's hat."

Stewart shifted his stream slightly eastward. He buttoned his overalls and sat back down.

"What about you, Snipes?" Dunbar asked. "You think there to be mountain lions up here or is it just folks' imaginings?"

Snipes pondered the question a few moments before speaking.

"They's many a man of science would claim there ain't because you got no irredeemable evidence like panther scat or fur or tooth or tail. In other words, some part of the animal in question. Or better yet having the actual critter itself, the whole thing kit and caboodle head to tail, which all your men of science argue is the best proof of all a thing exists, whether it be a panther, or a bird, or even a dinosaur."

Snipes paused to gauge the level of comprehension among his audience and decided further explanation was necessary.

"To put it another way, if you was to stub your toe and tell the man of science what happened he'd not believe a word of it less he could see how it'd stoved up or was bleeding. But your philosophers and theologians and such say there's things in the world that's every bit as real even though you can't see them."

"Like what?" Dunbar asked.

"Well," Snipes said. "They's love, that's one. And courage. You can't see neither of them, but they're real. And air, of course. That's one of your most important examples. You wouldn't be alive a minute if there wasn't air, but nobody's ever seen a single speck of it."

"And chiggers," Stewart said helpfully. "You'll never see one but you get into a mess of them and you'll be itching for a week."

"So you're saying you believe there's still a panther around," Dunbar said.

"I'm not certain of such a thing," Snipes said. "All I'm saying is there is a lot more to this old world than meets the eye."

The crew foreman paused and stretched his open palms closer to the fire.

"And darkness. You can't see it no more than you can see air, but when it's all around you sure enough know it."

BY LATE SUNDAY MORNING THE SNOW HAD stopped, and Buchanan and the Pembertons decided to go hunting a mile southwest of camp, a five-acre meadow Galloway had baited for a month. Wilkie, whose sporting life consisted of nothing more than an occasional poker game, stayed in Waynesville. Young Vaughn packed the Studebaker farm wagon with provisions, the gray wool golf cap pulled down over his red hair. Galloway had procured a farmer's pack of Plotts and Redbones considered the finest in the county. Galloway sat on the wagon's springboard seat with Vaughn, between them Shakes, the farmer's prize Plott hound, the rest of the dogs piled in back with the provisions. The Pembertons and Buchanan followed on horseback, crossing Balsam Mountain before veering east to enter a V-shaped gorge the mountaineers called a shut-in.

" Galloway 's baited the meadow with corn and apples," Pemberton said. "That'll bring deer, maybe a bear."

"Perhaps even your panther," Serena said, "following the deer."

"The deer carcass the men found on Noland last week," Buchanan asked Galloway. "How did you know a mountain lion didn't kill it?"

Galloway turned, his left eye narrowing. His lips veered rightward, as though trying to slide the smile off his face.

"Because its chest wasn't tore open. There's cats will eat the tongue and ears before anything else, but not a panther. It eats the heart first."

They followed the wagon as it swayed and bumped into the gorge, rock cliffs pressing closer on both sides as they descended. They went single file now, the horses' pastern joints deftly negotiating the narrowing slantland. Halfway down, Galloway stopped the wagon and examined an oak tree whose lower branches were broken off.

"At least one bear in this shut-in," Galloway said, "and goodly-sized to skin up a tree like this one done."

They soon passed directly under a cliff, spears of ice hanging from the rocks. At the tightest point, Vaughn and Galloway stopped and lifted the iron-rimmed left wheels one at a time over a rock jut, in the process spilling out three hounds and a larder filled with sandwiches. Pemberton paused to tighten his saddle's girth. After he finished, he looked up the trail and saw Serena thirty yards ahead, the Arabian blending so well with the snow that for a moment she appeared to ride the air itself. Pemberton smiled and wished a crew of loggers could have seen the illusion. Since her initial triumph over Bilded, the men ascribed all sorts of powers to Serena, some bordering on the otherworldly.

Finally the shut-in widened again, and they came to a bald where the trail ended. Galloway jumped into the back of the wagon and leashed the dogs.

"The brindled ones," Serena said. "What breed are they?"

"They're called Plotts, a local variety," Pemberton explained. "They're bred specifically for boar and bear."

"The broad chest is impressive. Is their courage?"

"Equally impressive," Pemberton said.

They took what was needed from the wagon and moved into the thickening woods, Galloway and Vaughn and the dogs well behind. The Pembertons and Buchanan progressed on foot now, the horses' reins in one hand, rifles in the other.

"Quite a few poplars and oaks," Serena noted, nodding at the surrounding trees.

"Some of our best acreage," Pemberton said. " Campbell 's found a stand of tulip poplars where the smallest is eighty feet high."

Buchanan walked beside Pemberton now.

"This stock market collapse, Pemberton. I wonder about its long-term effects for us."

"We'll be better off than most businesses," Pemberton replied. "The worst for us is less building being done."

"Perhaps the need for coffins will offset that," Serena said. "There's evidently quite a demand for them on Wall Street."

Buchanan paused, grasped Pemberton's coat by the elbow and leaned closer. Pemberton smelled Bay Rum aftershave and Woodbury hair tonic, which bespoke coifed hair and smooth cheeks as part of Buchanan's hunt preparation.

"So the Secretary of the Interior's interest in this land. You still say we shouldn't consider it?"

Serena was a few steps farther ahead and turned to speak, but Buchanan raised his palm.

"I'm asking your husband's opinion, Mrs. Pemberton, not yours."

Serena stared at Buchanan a few moments. The gold flecks in her irises seemed to absorb more light even as the pupils receded into some deeper part of her. Then she turned and walked on.

"My opinion is the same as my wife's," Pemberton said. "We don't sell unless we make a good profit."

They walked another furlong before the land briefly rose, then began falling at a sharper grade. Soon the meadow's white leveling emerged through the trees. Galloway had brought a tote sack of corn the previous day, and a dozen deer placidly ate the last of it. Fresh snow muffled the hunters' footsteps, and no deer raised its head as the Pembertons and Buchanan tethered their horses, walked on through the remaining woods and took positions at the meadow's edge.

They each picked out a deer and raised their rifles. Pemberton said now and they fired. Two deer fell to the ground and did not move, but Buchanan's ran crashing into the brush and trees on the other side. It fell, got up, then disappeared into the deeper woods.

Galloway soon joined the Pembertons and Buchanan, the Plotts and Redbones gusting Galloway in different directions as if the leashes were attached to low-flying kites. Once in the meadow, Galloway freed the strike dog and then the others. The hounds ran in a yelping rush toward the far woods where the wounded deer had gone. Galloway listened to the pack for a few moments before turning to Buchanan and the Pembertons.

"This shut-in ain't got but one way out. If you flank this meadow and put one of you in the center, there ain't nothing on four legs getting by."