"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."