Southern Ghost

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Had he lived to be an old man, Ross Tarrant's face, stripped of every vestige of youth and joy, would have looked much as it did in that last hour: brooding pain-filled eyes deep-sunken, grayish skin stretched taut over prominent cheekbones, finely chiseled lips pressed hard to prevent a telltale tremor.

Slumped wearily in the battered old morris chair, a man's chair in a man's retreat, he stared at the pistol, horror flicker­ing in his eyes like firelight against a night sky.

The sound of the motor reached him first, then the crunch of tires against the oyster shells.

The door was locked.

But it was no ultimate defense.

Ross knew that.

As the throb of the engine died and a car door slammed, Ross reached for the gun.

"Ross." A commanding voice. A voice he knew from child­hood, from crisp winter mornings when the men zigzagged across a field and lifted shotguns to fire at the flushed quail.

The gun was heavy: So heavy. Ross willed away the un­steadiness of his hand.

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