Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

 

A note of raw panic ran through the woman's voice like a hacksaw through a sheet of plate glass.

 

She was crouched in the doorway of what Ryan guessed was likely the kitchen. The voice came from low down. Just as she spoke, his keen hearing had caught the click of a shotgun hammer being thumbed back. So it probably wasn't any kind of a bluff.

 

"Could use ten seconds, if you don't mind," he said. "Three's not enough."

 

"Three's plenty if you're the murdering bastard that I take you for. Speak out, quick. I can see you silhouetted against the front door real good. Not going to miss with my 12-gauge, old Betsy here."

 

"Sure you're not. Name's Ryan Cawdor. Come from out in the Shens. On my way to Fairplay to meet up with my wife and some friends. Came across a party that had been attacked on the trail. Said it was a gang of norms and stickies. Seen plenty of their work. They fire the ville?"

 

"Course they did, stupe! Hadn't been for the heaviest damned rain I've known in fifty years of living in Alma that put out the flames."

 

"Most folks get away?"

 

"Yeah." The tension eased just a little from her voice. Now that his eye was becoming accustomed to the semidarkness, Ryan could see her, kneeling on the floor, about fifteen feet in front of him.

 

"They been gone long? The killers?"

 

"Half a day. I'm not sure I believe your story, mister. You took a gamble coming in here."

 

"Didn't know anyone was left in the ville."

 

"Still a gamble. You a gamblin' man?"

 

"Best I know is not to hit seventeen when you bet against the dealer," he replied.

 

There was no response, though he could see the woman had shuffled a little, as if she were uncomfortable.

 

Outside, he could hear the rain sweeping against the door, slicing into the narrow hall. He stood still, not wanting to make any move that might leave him on his back, staring at the ceiling, with a bellyful of buckshot.

 

"You still there, lady?" he asked.

 

"Yeah. I can't see why you'd have come back on your own if you were one of those devils. They only go around in gangs."

 

"Comes down to you believing me and letting me in. Or you don't believe me and you gut shoot me and that's the end of the line. Up to you. But it's cold and wet waiting here."

 

The woman stood, sighing, helping herself with a hand on the frame of the door. "Damned arthritis creeps up in rainy weather," she said. "Best close the door, mister. What did you say your name was?"

 

"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.

 

Ryan turned to the woman.

 

The house moved, carrying Elvira toward him, her mouth open in shock. Pictures fell off walls and the door cracked down its center. The rumbling grew louder, as if a war wag were roaring into the middle of the room.

 

Ryan's last glimpse was of the ceiling falling, splintering apart, and seeing the dark sky beyond the tumbling walls. There was a blow to the side of his head and

 

Darkness.