Morgan sat up sharply. "How many dogs you got, and where do you live?"
"Fo' dawgs. I live in the swamp. They's a big hollow cypress—I got my bed in it."
"Why didn't you move in here?"
The old man looked at the place in the center of the floor where the dust outlined the shape of a human body. "Suicide," he muttered. Then he looked up. "'Tain't superstition, exactly. I just don't—"
"Never mind," Morgan murmured. He glanced at the girl. She had laid the shotgun aside and was lighting a cigarette. He tensed himself, then sprang like a cat.
The gun was in his hands, and he was backing across the room before she realized what had happened. Her face went suddenly white. The old man just sat and looked baffled.
"Can you call one of your dogs?"
"Yes, suh, but—"
"Call one, I want to try something."
Shera bit her lip. "Why, Morgan? To see if what I said is true?"