The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion by Loren D. Estleman

hands above the chimney of the lamp. “Cold out there. You’d think it was snow and not salt.”
    â€œRubbish!” The Major took snuff.
    â€œOh, Johnny, I’m going to play St. Joan!”
    â€œGood God, Corny. Why not write about the Virgin Mary and make the challenge impossible?” He caught April’s wrist in midswing. “No, dear. Smite the English.”
    The Major blew his nose. “What news?”
    â€œNot a sign. She ought to be back by now.” Johnny took off his coat, black broadcloth with three capes and a red silk lining. He’d seen a photograph of Irving wearing one like it and had had it made to his measure in St. Louis. He looked dashing in it, and with his long flaxen hair and moustaches a bit like a buccaneer.
    April said, “You don’t suppose she’s been arrested.”
    â€œWe always knew that was a possibility. Hers is the riskiest part of our plan.”
    â€œYour plan, not mine. A posse could be on its way here at this moment.” She touched her throat.
    â€œWhat of it?” asked the Major. “There’s nothing here to incriminate us.”
    Cornelius laid down his pen. “She has the money. That’s incrimination enough.”
    â€œOnly for her.”
    Everyone looked at the Major, who shrugged. “She would say the same thing, if our situations were reversed. That’s the solid foundation upon which our relationship rests.”
    â€œAre you two even married?” Johnny asked.
    â€œWe exchanged the necessary vows. However, I have my doubts about the minister. He played Horatio for five weeks in Philadelphia.”
    â€œWe’re sitting hens if she peaches,” said April, “or even if she does not. Someone is bound to recognize her, and the rest will follow. I’ve said all along we should include horses in our arrangements.”
    â€œI haven’t been aboard a horse since Harrow.”
    Johnny said, “The Major’s right, dear. He’s too fat to ride, and Corny’s too delicate. The more players we leave behind, the greater our chances of conviction and imprisonment. Even if you and I make the train, the authorities will just wire ahead. We’ll be arrested at the next stop. It’s our word against Lizzie’s if it’s just her, and something else if it’s two against three.”
    April sighed. “A fine honorable lot of thieves we are.”
    Johnny laughed. “There’s no honor anywhere. I’ve seen the other side.” He unshipped his watch. “We’ll give her half an hour, then start searching. Perhaps she fell and broke her leg.”
    Cornelius picked up his pen and dipped it. “Let us hold on to that hope.”
    Thirty minutes of silence followed, interrupted only by April’s pacing and the scratching of Cornelius’ pen. Johnny looked at his watch for the twentieth time, then snapped shut the face with finality. “Right.” He threw on his coat.
    The door opened then and Mme. Mort-Davies came in, pushing her bicycle. The front wheel was bent and her sweater was torn. The Major struggled to his feet. Johnny lifted the lamp, casting light on Lizzie’s face. One eye was swollen almost shut and blood crusted her chin.
    Johnny took the bicycle while April and the Major helped her into the Major’s chair. Cornelius reached inside the picnic basket and gave Johnny the bottle of brandy they’d been saving to celebrate. Lizzie winced when she opened her lips to receive the bottle; the lower one split open afresh and trickled more blood onto her chin. She took two more sips, and between them reported what had happened on the road outside Salt Lake City.
    â€œHe got all of it?” demanded Johnny.
    â€œHe didn’t offer to divide it. Search me if you like.”
    â€œDon’t take offense. If you stole from us, you wouldn’t stop at one day’s profits. What about the Colt?”
    She tugged up