The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion Read Online Free Page A

prettily in the shade of her parasol.
    â€œJohnny, it’s deserted. There’s no one to protect us from Indians.”
    Vermillion, seated facing her on the bench opposite, reached out and patted her knee. “Of course there is, dear. You’ve met Gunderson.”
    Their driver, a representative specimen of frontier color introduced as New Hope’s mayor pro tem, wore a Union forage cap and the greatcoat of a colonel in the Confederacy. He’d appointed himself to fill the vacancy left by the founder’s suicide.
    â€œIt’s a damn Whitechapel in the desert,” declared Major Davies, gripping his stick. “There are
rats
in the
street
.” He was always in bad cess when his wife was absent.
    â€œThose aren’t rats, old fellow. They’ll keep the rattlesnakes out of our beds.”
    â€œYou don’t mean we’re to stay here overnight!” April glared defiance—a showstopper in the third act.
    â€œThat depends on Liz. She doesn’t pedal as fast as she used to.”
    â€œShe rode the high wire in Atlantic City in sixty-three,” said the Major. “My part against yours she’ll be here by dark.”
    â€œEven so, there’s no train before morning. I’ve slept outside on Blue Island. We’ll survive.”
    â€œIt will be an adventure,” said Cornelius Ragland.
    All eyes turned to the fragile young man, who had not spoken since before they left the train. He sat next to Gunderson on the driver’s seat. His eyes, large as pears in his thin face, gleamed through his spectacles.
    â€œCorny’s our pioneer,” Vermillion confided. “There’s nothing for him back East but the sanitarium.”
    They drew rein before a gaunt barn in a community of duncolored clapboard. Gunderson hopped down among the obligatory tumbleweeds and reached up to help Vermillion unload their single trunk; all but it and April’s leather train case had remained aboard the train, bound for their next port of call.
    â€œOh, Johnny, a
barn
?”
    He bared his polished teeth. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
    Inside, a lantern burned on a table inside a circle of barrel stoves, an island of warmth in the dank vastness smelling of grain. There were chairs, a pile of bedrolls, a picnic basket, and a foilwrapped glass neck sticking up out of a galvanized bucket filled with chunks of ice. The Major drew out the bottle of champagne and squinted at the label. “New Jersey.” He let it slide back.
    â€œThe French have yet to discover the charms of Nebraska.” The leader of the troupe uncovered the basket, took out a tinned ham, a loaf of bread, and a jar sealed with beeswax.
    â€œThem’s peach preserves.” Gunderson twisted the corncob pipe in his gray beard. “I couldn’t get the cheese.”
    â€œQuite all right.” Vermillion handed him a small drawstring bag. Silver clanked. “We’re waiting for the rest.”
    The mayor pro tem left, and the company sat down to their meal, filling tin cups with water from a canteen. They saved thechampagne for later. April avoided the ham, but took her bread in small pieces spread with preserves. Ragland ate with appetite, Vermillion with exaggerated fastidiousness. The Major said American peaches were no substitute for Sussex marmalade.
    Nearing dusk, they heard a noise outside. April drew a derringer from her reticule, a fine Remington with silver plating and ormolu grips. Vermillion opened the door and peered out, then spread it wide. “Merely our prodigal daughter. You may stand down, dear—although I must say that piece looks more comely in your hand than the Colt.”
    â€œThat horrid thing. I’m sure if I pulled the trigger it would flip me over onto my bustle.” She returned the weapon to its pocket in the lining.
    Mme. Mort-Davies entered, pushing her bicycle. She’d strapped down her generous bosom with