almost always awoke at daybreak, no matter how poorly he'd slept. That was either because the mountain air was cool and crisp in the morning, or because the workers from Mango Gap came up through the plantation yard in small groups, and the sound of their voices carried in the morning stillness.
It was a different sound that awoke Peter that morning, though. At the side of the garage stood two sturdy upright posts, supporting a crossbar from which hung an iron hoop and an iron striking bar. It was Kilmarnie's fire alarm. Until then, Peter had heard it only in a drill, but when the hoop was hit with the bar, the sound was an ear-splitting din that carried far.
That was the purpose of it, to bring the workers on the run if a fire broke out. Not only a fire at the house, but one on the mountain, as well. Peter knew that his father feared fire more than anything else at Kilmarnie, because if a blaze got out of control on the mountain, it could easily wipe out the coffee fields. That was one reason Mr. Devon tried to keep hunters off the property. A careless match or a cook fire left smoldering could bring disaster. So could lightning in a time of drought.
At that moment someone was pounding the iron hoop by the garage in obvious anger. Not with the striking bar, but with a stick.
Peter's bedroom had two doors, one opening onto the inside corridor, the other onto the far end of the long veranda. He slid out of bed in his pajamas and trotted barefoot to that one. As he drew it open and stepped outside, a loud voice broke through the noise of the alarm.
"Devon, me callin' you to come out! Me must talk to you!"
Peter advanced to the veranda railing and looked toward the garage. He was not surprised. The man doing the pounding was the one he had seen sleeping in Zackie Leonard's shack the evening before.
Suddenly the double doors at the top of the steps opened, and Walter Devon appeared. That he was fully dressed was no surprise, either. Peter never knew at what hour his dad would be up and about.
Striding to the top of the steps, Devon called out now to the man by the garage, "Who are you? What do you want at this hour?"
"Me name Merrick Leonard. Me Zackie Leonard's daddy."
There was a silence, as if Walter Devon had been caught off guard. Then he said, "Step away from the alarm, please. I can't see you clearly."
The man slouched to one side and Peter could see him better. He wore the same rags he had worn when asleep on the mattress.
Mr. Devon went a stride closer to the top of the steps. Neither man seemed aware that Peter was watching. "What do you want?" Walter Devon asked.
"Me come for the pig me son did shoot. Me want to know why you keeping it."
"How do you know your son shot a pig?"
"The men who bring it down did tell me."
"When?"
"Last night, in the shop."
So, Peter thought, the man hadn't stayed all night on his mattress in the shack. He had recovered enough to stagger down to the village for something more to drink. Kilmarnie workers often gathered at the district shops in the evenings. Not all of them drank, of course. Some only talked or played a game called skittles, on small pool tables.
"Why do you feel the pig belongs to you, Mr. Leonard?" Peter's father said.
"It do belong me! Him did shoot it with my own gun!"
"But it was shot on my land."
"It belong me!" Zackie's father raised an arm and shook his fist in anger, so violently that he lost his balance and had to grab at one of the fire-alarm posts to keep from falling.
"I disagree." Walter Devon was having trouble, Peter saw, keeping himself and his voice under control. He, too, was angry now. "I emphatically disagree, sir. So if you think you have a proper claim, I invite you to go to the police." His voice became more level. "In any case go somewhere, off my property, until you have the manners to come here sober! And if you ever again sound a false alarm on that hoop, I will go to the police."
"Me only use me stick, not the bar," Zackie's
It was a different sound that awoke Peter that morning, though. At the side of the garage stood two sturdy upright posts, supporting a crossbar from which hung an iron hoop and an iron striking bar. It was Kilmarnie's fire alarm. Until then, Peter had heard it only in a drill, but when the hoop was hit with the bar, the sound was an ear-splitting din that carried far.
That was the purpose of it, to bring the workers on the run if a fire broke out. Not only a fire at the house, but one on the mountain, as well. Peter knew that his father feared fire more than anything else at Kilmarnie, because if a blaze got out of control on the mountain, it could easily wipe out the coffee fields. That was one reason Mr. Devon tried to keep hunters off the property. A careless match or a cook fire left smoldering could bring disaster. So could lightning in a time of drought.
At that moment someone was pounding the iron hoop by the garage in obvious anger. Not with the striking bar, but with a stick.
Peter's bedroom had two doors, one opening onto the inside corridor, the other onto the far end of the long veranda. He slid out of bed in his pajamas and trotted barefoot to that one. As he drew it open and stepped outside, a loud voice broke through the noise of the alarm.
"Devon, me callin' you to come out! Me must talk to you!"
Peter advanced to the veranda railing and looked toward the garage. He was not surprised. The man doing the pounding was the one he had seen sleeping in Zackie Leonard's shack the evening before.
Suddenly the double doors at the top of the steps opened, and Walter Devon appeared. That he was fully dressed was no surprise, either. Peter never knew at what hour his dad would be up and about.
Striding to the top of the steps, Devon called out now to the man by the garage, "Who are you? What do you want at this hour?"
"Me name Merrick Leonard. Me Zackie Leonard's daddy."
There was a silence, as if Walter Devon had been caught off guard. Then he said, "Step away from the alarm, please. I can't see you clearly."
The man slouched to one side and Peter could see him better. He wore the same rags he had worn when asleep on the mattress.
Mr. Devon went a stride closer to the top of the steps. Neither man seemed aware that Peter was watching. "What do you want?" Walter Devon asked.
"Me come for the pig me son did shoot. Me want to know why you keeping it."
"How do you know your son shot a pig?"
"The men who bring it down did tell me."
"When?"
"Last night, in the shop."
So, Peter thought, the man hadn't stayed all night on his mattress in the shack. He had recovered enough to stagger down to the village for something more to drink. Kilmarnie workers often gathered at the district shops in the evenings. Not all of them drank, of course. Some only talked or played a game called skittles, on small pool tables.
"Why do you feel the pig belongs to you, Mr. Leonard?" Peter's father said.
"It do belong me! Him did shoot it with my own gun!"
"But it was shot on my land."
"It belong me!" Zackie's father raised an arm and shook his fist in anger, so violently that he lost his balance and had to grab at one of the fire-alarm posts to keep from falling.
"I disagree." Walter Devon was having trouble, Peter saw, keeping himself and his voice under control. He, too, was angry now. "I emphatically disagree, sir. So if you think you have a proper claim, I invite you to go to the police." His voice became more level. "In any case go somewhere, off my property, until you have the manners to come here sober! And if you ever again sound a false alarm on that hoop, I will go to the police."
"Me only use me stick, not the bar," Zackie's
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