His musket, and Hipolito's, were both leaning against the far wall, near the stairs. Then he remembered . . .
Slowly, with infinite care, he slipped open the buckle on the knapsack and felt for his knife, the one with the long blade he used for skinning. His fingers closed about its bone handle, and he carefully drew it from its sheath. He raised up quietly and smoothly, as though stalking a skittish calf, and edged against the wall. The shadow moved again, tentatively, and then a massive black form was outlined against the doorway.
Un negro!
Whose could it be? There were no more than forty or fifty slaves on the whole of Jamaica, brought years ago to work on the plantations. But the cane fields were far away, west of Rio Minho and inland. The only negro you ever saw this far east was an occasional domestic.
Perhaps he was a runaway? There was a band of Maroons, free negros, now living in the mountains. But they kept to themselves. They did not come down onto the plain to steal.
The black man stood staring at him. He did not move, merely watched as though completely unafraid.
Then Juan Jose saw the glint of a wide blade, a cutlass, in the moonlight. This was no thief. Who was he? What could he want?
"Senor, stop." He raised his knife. "You are not permitted . . ."
The negro moved through the doorway, as though not understanding. His blade was rising, slowly.
Juan Jose took a deep breath and lunged.