The first wagon halted in front of the commissary steps. A portly man adorned in a rumpled beige cotton suit doffed his black top hat with a flourish and bid Snipes and his fellows a good afternoon. The stranger spoke with a nasal accent none of the men had ever heard before but Snipes immediately suspected had been cultivated at a European university.

"Appears you've took a wrong turn," Ross said, nodding at the paired animals. "That ark I notion you're searching for ain't around here. Even if it was, you're a tad late to get a seat on it."

"Our destination is the Pemberton Lumber camp," the man said, puzzled. "Is this not it?"

Snipes stood up. "Yes sir, it is, and unlike Mr. Ross here I'm a man of some culture and respectful of others that has it as well. How may I assist you?"

"I need to speak with the camp's owners, for permission to perform this evening."

"That would be Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton," Snipes said. "They like to ride their horses on Sundays, but they ought to be heading back in soon enough. They'll come right by here, so's the best thing to do is just sit and wait."

"Your suggestion appears a sound choice," the man said, and despite his considerable bulk leaped off the buckboard and landed with surprising light-footedness, the top hat wobbling but remaining on his head. "My name is Hamby, and I am the owner of this carnival."

Hamby knotted the horse's reins to a porch rail and clapped his hand twice. The other three men, who up until this moment had been inanimate as statues, now tethered their wagons as well. They immediately went about various tasks, one watering the menagerie while another searched possible sights to raise the tent. The third, a small swarthy man, disappeared into his wagon.

"Say you been doing your show across the ocean," Henryson said, nodding at the second wagon.

"Yes sir," the carnival owner said. "We're only back in this country for a limited engagement. We're headed to New York, then back to Europe."

"Kind of a roundabout way to get to New York, coming through these mountains," Ross said.

"Indeed it is," Hamby said, weariness tinting his voice, "but as professional entertainers, we feel a need, dare I say a moral obligation, to bring culture to those such as yourself exiled to the hinterlands."

"Awful kind of you to do that for us," Ross said.

At that moment, the man who'd entered the wagon reemerged in black tights and a black-and-white checked shirt made of the same pliable material, four bowling pins dangling from his hands. But it was what adorned his head that most intrigued Snipes and his crew, a piece of haberdashery concocted from red and green felt and silver bells, splayed atop the man's skull like an exhausted octopus.

"What do you call that thing on your noggin?" Snipes asked.

"A cap and bells," the man said in a thick accent, then began juggling the bowling pins.

"A cap and bells," Snipes repeated. "I've read of them but yours is the first I ever seen. I'd of not notioned it to have so much color."

Snipes joined the other crew members who'd gathered around the last wagon. The worker who'd been tending to the animals walked toward it as well, a bantam chicken squawking and flapping in his grip. The worker lifted the tarp and with obvious trepidation shoved the chicken and as little of his flesh as possible between the steel bars. He jerked his hand back and looked at it dubiously, as if surprised it was still there. Something very large and very powerful lunged against the cage with such force the whole wagon shook, the wheels rocking a few inches forward. A flurry of feathers rose into the cage's upper realm, seemed to hang a few moments before slowly floating down. One slipped through the bars, and Henryson reached out so it might settle in his hand. He peered at the feather and spoke.

"Favors chicken, does it?"

The carnival worker gave an enigmatic smile that did not balance the flinty look in his eyes.

"It favors anything that's got meat on it."

Hamby joined Snipes and the others. For a few moments the only sound came from within the cage, a brisk crunching of bones.

"I reckon you got to pay to know what sort of critter you got in there?" Henryson asked.

"Not at all, sir," Hamby said, opening his hands and arms in an expansive gesture. "It's a dragon."

Ross nodded at the zebras, one of which was licking a stripe off its shoulder, the long tongue black as licorice.

"I hope it's a sight more convincing than them."

"Convincing," Hamby spoke the word as if it had a pleasant taste. "That's the main purpose of our show, to convince our audience it has seen, in the flesh, the world's most dangerous creature. My dragon has fought a jaguar in Texas, an alligator in Louisiana, an orangutan in London, innumerable breeds of canine and several men now deceased."

"And never lost?" Stewart asked.

"Never," Hamby said. "So whatever manner of ferocious beast these mountains offer, bring it tonight, gentlemen. I welcome wagers on the side as well, to make it more sporting."

Henryson stared intently at the cage.

"How much you charge to look at it? Right now, I mean?"

"Free of charge for you men, just so you'll tell your friends of the terrifying wonder you have witnessed with your very own eyes."

Hamby nodded to the worker who'd fed the creature, and he pulled a frayed hemp cord. The muslin tarp fell away from the cage, revealing a creature shaped much like an alligator, though its skin was dusty and gray. A forked purple tongue stabbed the air as its head swayed slowly back and forth.

"Six feet in length and two hundred pounds of reptilian muscle and meanness," Hamby said. "Trapped on the isle of Komodo, its native habitat."

As the men stepped closer to the cage, Hamby motioned behind them.

"You sir, you can see the world's deadliest creature for free as well."

Galloway came forward, stared at the reptile impassively.

"Say you'll fight it against anything," Galloway said after a few moments.

"Anything," Hamby replied, signaling his cohort to raise the tarp. "Bring your champion tonight, and your billfolds, for the ultimate test against the ultimate foe."

BY nightfall the canvas tent had been raised, lamps and torches lit, at the center a waist-high steel-mesh fence linked to make a ring, inside of which the man in black tights juggled before swallowing fire and pieces of colored glass and, finally and most dramatically, a sword. The menagerie then paced around the ring while Hamby, dressed now in a red swallow-tailed coat, top hat set on the crook of his arm, held forth with great originality on the animals' various attributes and origins. Only after all this was the dragon brought forth, one section of the fence unlocked so the cage door filled the gap. A carnival worker climbed atop the steel bars and lifted the door, the dragon swaggering forth into the pit. As its purple tongue probed the new surroundings, several men tested the interlocked metal holding the creature in and decided to watch from a farther vantage point. Hamby had set up a table beside the cage. Money and paper scraps with names and initials and in a few cases distinctive X's quickly covered its surface, though the largest wager had already been made with Serena. Side bets with the carnival's other workers were more informal, including one between Snipes and the juggler.

Several men cheered when Serena entered the tent, the eagle on her arm. She raised her free hand and the men grew silent. Serena told all the workers to be as quiet and still as possible, then motioned for those closest to the fence to back up at few feet. Serena placed the eagle, still hooded, on her fist. She spoke to the Berkute in a calm voice, then softly stroked the bird's keel with the backs of two fingers. The dragon still paced but it had moved into the far corner, like a boxer awaiting the bell.