“Hold it right there, Callaghan!” Corey looked up finding just enough moonlight to see a shotgun pointing in his direction. The outhouse door had just swung shut behind him so there was no place to retreat to and the ground was clear to either side of him with nothing to hide behind. “Get your hands up!” the man ordered. Corey lifted his eyes—not his hands—and saw the person threatening him was a Negro maybe thirty or thirty-five years old wearing a worn-out derby tight upon his head. The serious look in his eye told Corey he was very familiar with

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