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dressed?”
    â€œWhen I knew him in Santa Fe he was a dandy. But after he went downhill, he became slovenly. It happened so fast out there that I barely had a chance to see him. I just had a glance before I felt this terrible pain and fainted. But I think he was dressed like a working man, heavy brown pants, wool coat, and dirty boots.”
    â€œThat description isn’t going to help me much.”
    â€œAre you going out to look for him now?”
    â€œThat’s my intention.”
    Delia reached out. “Please don’t leave me.”
    â€œI’ll lock the door and leave you my pistol. If I can find him tonight and either kill or arrest him for attempted murder, we’ll both be a lot happier.”
    â€œBe careful. He is a very determined and clever man.”
    â€œAre you sure that you can’t remember anything more to help me spot him if he’s drinking in a saloon or eating?”
    Delia’s brow furrowed with concentration. “One more thing.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œFrank Roman always favored very powerful cologne. It was called . . . Wild Sage.”
    â€œI’ve used it . . . sparingly.”
    â€œWell John practically drenched himself in the stuff and I recall smelling it when he stabbed me.”
    Longarm shook his head. “I can’t just go around smelling men in saloons, Delia.”
    â€œI understand. But if you get near him, you’ll smell it. Also, he likes cigars and the bigger and blacker the better.”
    â€œI’ll watch for a man with a scar on his chin and a stogie in his mouth and who smells like Wild Sage.”
    â€œThat’s right. If you find all three, it will be Frank Roman.”

Chapter 9
    Longarm stood just inside the door of the hotel and peered out into the street. There were just two or three saloons in Elko and the Stag Saloon seemed to be the most popular. The other two saloons were only a few doors away and much quieter.
    When he thought about Frank Roman, Longarm conjured up the image of a tortured soul, a person who had been a successful dime novelist and probably regarded himself as at least a minor celebrity in Santa Fe. Then along had come this beautiful, conniving woman named Delia Wilson, the daughter of the governor of Colorado, seeking his valuable insight on how to write dime novels. How flattering that must have been and when Delia had poured on the praise and charm, poor Frank Roman became putty in her hands. He’d fallen in love with Delia and probably even imagined she might marry an older and not especially attractive man because she admired his intellect and creativity.
    For whatever reason Frank Roman had fallen for Delia and given her his most precious secrets . . . his best story ideas, and she had taken them and left the poor dime novelist feeling used, forsaken, and foolish. No wonder he had been so consumed by hatred that he had gone to Denver and then followed her on a train to this small Nevada cow and railroad town. And at the very first opportunity when Longarm had not been at Delia’s side he’d attacked her with a knife. Frank Roman must have thought that he’d dealt her a fatal blow, but now he would be sure to know that Delia was alive and resting in a hotel with another man who happened to be a United States marshal.
    Longarm paused a few more moments, asking himself what he would do if he had been grievously wronged and made to look like a lovesick idiot. He would never have tried to kill Delia, but he would surely have felt she deserved the worst possible tragedies in life.
    Had Roman gotten on the train yesterday and fled town? He might even have taken the eastbound back to Denver and returned to Santa Fe to either drink himself to death or perhaps try to resurrect his ruined literary career. Yes, that was a possibility and it was the one that Longarm hoped for. But more than likely, a man with that much hatred would attack