“Ryan Cawdor.” He pushed the front door shut. “You wouldn’t have some light, would you?”
“Lamps attract the wrong kind of interest, Mr. Cawdor. Some of my friends found that out when the gang hit us.”
“I believe that they’ve moved on. Higher up. Toward Fairplay and Harmony.”
She nodded, just visible. “Stand still, so you don’t knock over any of my valuables. I’ll tug the curtains closed and we can risk a light.”
He could hear her moving slowly in the front room and the whisper of the curtains being drawn shut. Then came the rasp of a self-light and the golden glow of an oil lamp.
“Come ahead, Mr. Cawdor. But remember, I still got Betsy here in case you got fancy ideas.”
“My only idea is to try and get dry and warm. Don’t even know your name.”
He walked into a neat parlor, with a pedal harmonium in one corner and the remains of a fire glowing in the hearth. A copper scuttle held some cut logs. The main impression was of a comfortable clutter of ornaments.
“I’m Elvira Madison.”
She looked to be around forty, with a mop of bushy hair tied with a red ribbon. She had a perky face and bright eyes, but her heavy body, swollen legs and twisted hands showed the extent that the arthritis had her in its thrall.
Elvira was wearing a skirt of handwoven wool and a blouse of embroidered cotton, and she was holding a single-barrel Model 94C Stevens shotgun as if she was still ready to use it.
“Seen enough, Mr. Cawdor?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare. Just that this part of Colorado seems flooded with death, and it’s good to see someone as alive as you.”
“Flattery gets you everywhere. Oh, I can’t keep hold of old Betsy. You look like a hard man, Mr. Cawdor, but not a vicious one. Hope I’m right in that.”
She uncocked the blaster and leaned it against the side of a well-worn armchair.
“I was going to put on some stew. How’s that sound? And there’s a pile of blankets in the spare room. Probably damp with all the rain, but they’ll dry out. You can strip off and get your clothes dry.” She saw the look on his face. “Doubt you got anything that I haven’t seen before, Mr. Cawdor. I’m a widow with three husbands in the graveyard yonder. You can peel bare naked and I won’t blink.” She made her careful way to the hall, pausing to smile back at him. “Might not blink, but I might ask you to jump my bones later. Been a while.”
She cackled with laughter and went into the kitchen.
Ryan intended to take her advice about getting himself and his clothes dry, but he walked around the room first, letting some of the day’s tension ease away.
Elvira kept her little home in bright, new-pin condition. He ran a finger over the top of a mahogany bureau, finding it spotless. There were bits of china and glass all over the place. Taking pride of place in the center of the mantel was a porcelain figure of a swarthy man in a white-fringed jumpsuit with a jeweled buckle. He had long sideburns and carried a guitar. Ryan wasn’t absolutely sure, but he thought it was probably a statue of the legendary Elvis Presley.
An ornate ormolu clock on a side table chimed the hours. Six o’clock.
There was a strange groaning noise that made Ryan stop and look around. It had sounded as though a very large dog had leaned against one of the walls of the house, but it wasn’t repeated.
Elvira reappeared, hobbling with the aid of a stick. “Couldn’t hold this and Betsy, as well.” She grinned.
There was a strong gust of wind that rattled the catch on the window, and a fresh burst of heavy rain dashed against the front of the house.
“Have to be getting hold of some cubits of gopher wood and building me an ark if this goes on,” Elvira stated. “I never knew the like.”
There was a faint and distant rumble, and some of the glass animals on the shelf by the fireplace started to chink against one another.