."
Hunting for what--food? The idea twisted disgust in Morgan's stomach.

"What're you going to do with them?"

"Oh--" The oldster kicked one of them lightly with his toe. The pink
thing rolled against the wall. There were vestigial signs of arms,
legs, but tiny and useless, grown fast to the body. The visitor
glanced up with a sheepish grin.

"I feed 'em to my dawgs, suh. Dawgs like 'em. Getting so my dawgs can
smell the difference twixt a man and an Orenian. I'm training 'em.
They help me with my hunting."

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?"

"Yeah."

"I'll save you the trouble." She stared into his face solemnly and
slowly opened her mouth. From beneath her tongue, a barb slowly
protruded until its point projected several inches from her lips.
Morgan shivered.

* * * * *

The Negro, who was sitting rigidly frozen, suddenly dove for his
pitchfork with a wild cry. "Witcherwoman! Oren-stinger!"

Shera darted aside as the pitchfork sailed toward her and shattered
the window. She seized it quickly and held him at bay. The old man
looked startled. Orenians tried to sting, not to fight.

"Hold it!" bellowed Morgan.

Reluctantly, the oldster backed away and fell into the chair again.
But his eyes clung to the girl with hatred.

"She stung ya, suh?"

"No, and she won't sting you." He gazed at Shera coldly. "Drop that
fork."

She propped it against the wall but stayed close to it. "Okay,
Morgan," she purred. "It's your show."

"It's going to be yours. Sit down and tell us everything that happened
before you were stung and after. I want