Longarm and the Dime Novelist (6 page)

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 Delia again and again until she was dead and he felt vindicated and that justice by his hand had been served.

So, Longarm thought, Frank Roman was either still in Elko waiting to strike again before the westbound train left for Reno tomorrow, or he had already left and was waiting for them in Reno.

It was time to step out into the dim streets of Elko and enter the saloons and try to find the bitter and dangerous man. Once found, he would arrest Frank Roman, but he would write a note to the judge asking for leniency and understanding.

Longarm stepped out onto the boardwalk and paused in the shadows. When his eyes were adjusted to the poor light he moved silently down the boardwalk to the nearest saloon and slipped inside and studied the occupants. The bartender gave Longarm just a passing glance before filling a mug of beer for one of the patrons standing at the bar. There were only seven or eight other customers hunched over their drinks, all of them obviously cowboys or the owners of small businesses.

“Come have a drink,” the bartender called. “Beer or whiskey?”

“Neither,” Longarm said, backing out the door and heading up the street.

The Last Chance Saloon was a little busier and again Longarm stepped inside but did not move toward the bar or the other customers. He could see every customer clearly and none of them matched the description that he'd been given of Frank Roman. The bartender didn't notice him and Longarm backed out without a word and headed toward the Stag Saloon.

This saloon was crowded and far larger and fancier than its competitors. The bar was at least thirty feet long and ornately carved out of glistening oak wood. There were at ten tables where men sat drinking and playing cards and a piano player was pounding out a tune at the back of the building while several saloon girls danced with cowboys, railroad workers, and business owners. Nobody was drunk and nobody was being loud or unruly. Longarm had been in this saloon several times and knew that the owner ran honest card games and didn't water down the beer or whiskey.

“Beer?” the one of two bartenders wearing clean white aprons asked when Longarm sidled up to the bar, pulling the brim of his hat low over his eyes.

“Sure.”

The bartender poured Longarm a tall mug of beer and deftly whipped off its foamy top. “Be ten cents.”

Longarm paid the man and nodded in appreciation. The beer was good and he sipped it while his eyes roamed over the faces in the room. It didn't take him long to spot a man that matched the description that had been given him by Delia. Frank Roman was smoking a big cigar at one of the tables with three other men playing poker. There was a half-empty pitcher of beer on the table and the players were using dollar bills and coins instead of poker chips. From the look of the piles at each player's left hand, Longarm could see that Frank Roman was doing quite well. He might have lost his ability to write dime novels, but he was obviously still sharp enough to be an excellent poker player.

“Aren't you that marshal from Denver?” the bartender asked, coming back to join Longarm. “I think I've seen you in here before. I believe your name is Marshal Custis Long.”

Longarm was annoyed. The last thing he needed was for Frank Roman to spot him before he could subdue the former writer. He put his back to the room, lowered his head, and hissed, “I'm about to arrest one of your customers for that stabbing that took place.”

“You mean someone in here stuck that pretty woman earlier today? That was a terrible and dastardly thing to do! Is she going to recover?”

“Miss Wilson is doing fine, but unless you keep your voice down and let me do my job without blowing my identity, there could be a shooting right here in the saloon.”

Finally, the bartender understood. He was a short, round man in his fifties with a gray beard and mustache. “Marshal,” he said in a low voice, “we don't want any wild shoot-outs. Why, the mirror behind our bar is worth a thousand dollars and is irreplaceable. Which man are you after?”

Longarm didn't even turn his head around. “The one on that table playing cards and wearing a brown coat and derby. He's smoking a big cigar.”

The bartender nodded slightly. “Okay, I see him. Anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah. Go over there and pretend to accidently slip and then fall across the table.”

“What!”

“Knock everything to the floor. Money, beer, and cards. When the players start collecting it say you're sorry and will give them a free pitcher of beer. Then hurry back and tell me if my man is packing a six gun on his hip or if you see any other weapon.”

“But those boys will be madder than hell at me.”

“It doesn't matter,” Longarm insisted. “As soon as you come back and tell me how he's armed, I'll walk over while they're picking up their cash and cards and make the arrest. It's the best chance we have of avoiding gunfire.”

The bartender didn't like the plan, but under Longarm's steely gaze he decided against an argument. “All right. I sure hope this works, and I wish you could just go over there and get the drop on him.”

“I'm certain that Frank Roman knows what I look like and would go for a gun before I could grab him,” Longarm explained. “This way, when he's down on the floor grabbing his poker winnings he won't see me coming.”

The reluctant bartender nodded and left after folding a white bar towel across his forearm. Longarm watched him weave his way through the crowd taking drink orders and passing comments and smiles. When he reached the table where Frank Roman was sitting, the bartender slowly turned as if to speak to someone then pretended to lose his balance and crash into the table, spilling cards, money, and drinks across the floor.

Frank Roman and the others shouted in anger at the bartender, who threw up his hands indicating that he was sorry about the accident. When the players dropped to the floor and began to collect their money, Longarm went into action. He hurried across the room and drew his pistol, crouched low, and stuck the barrel into Frank Roman's beard.

“You're under arrest. Don't make me kill you.”

Roman froze, then his eyes lifted to meet Longarm's steady gaze. “I failed to kill the bitch, didn't I.”

It wasn't a question but instead an admission of failure.

“That's right. On your feet.”

“Not until I collect my winnings, Marshal Long.”

“Where you're going you won't need them. Stand up!”

But Frank Roman didn't obey the command but instead reached into his pocket, pulled out a derringer, and tried to shoot Longarm in the foot.

“Shit!” Longarm growled, pulling the trigger of his Colt revolver and sending a bullet downward into the man's back.

The former dime novelist collapsed on the floor. Longarm tore the derringer from his hand and then turned Roman over on his back. “Why the hell did you go and do that!”

Roman's eyes fluttered. His lips moved as he struggled to speak through a bloody froth. Longarm gently leaned low placing his ear close in an attempt to hear Frank Roman's dying words.

“That bitch will ruin you, too, Marshal. I'll see you in a paradise especially reserved for lovesick . . . lovesick
fools
!”

Longarm dropped the man's derringer into his own pocket. He looked around the saloon where everyone stood frozen.

“This man is the one that stabbed the woman out on the sidewalk earlier today. His name was Frank Roman and not so long ago he was a popular dime novelist.”

“I've read his books. He was good,” a man nearby offered.

“I've read 'em, too,” a cowboy said quietly as he removed his Stetson. “There are at least a dozen Roman dime novels in our bunkhouse. Is that really Mr. Frank Roman?”

“Yes,” Longarm said.

“Why'd he go and stab that woman?” the cowboy asked, looking genuinely sad and perplexed.

“Long, tragic story,” Longarm replied. “You men collect the man's poker winnings and add a little of your own to give Frank Roman a decent and respectful burial.”

“He was a damned good writer,” the cowboy said, more to himself than to anyone around him. “He created this cowboy character named Lightning Jack who was a great hero and . . .”

Longarm didn't want to hear any more about Frank Roman or his dime novel heroes. He had done what had to be done here, but as he stared down at Roman's body and the blood pool that was surrounding it, Longarm suddenly felt disgust and bitter regret.

“Take up the collection and put his name on a tombstone and under it the words,
he was a fine dime novelist
.”

“You think that's what he'd like to have carved on his tombstone?” someone asked.

“I'm sure of it,” Longarm replied as he headed for the door.

Outside, he took a few deep breaths and then he headed down to a quiet saloon where a man could drink and not be bothered. Where Longarm could try to figure out what he might have done differently in order to save a ruined life that had once been celebrated in both cities and small ranching towns. And especially in isolated Nevada bunkhouses.

“Delia,” Longarm said, gently nudging her awake. “The train just pulled into town and it'll be taking on wood and water. I checked and it leaves for Reno in less than two hours. Thought you might want to get dressed and packed, then we can go find something to eat before we get on board.”

She yawned and scrubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I feel a lot better today. And I'm so glad that you weren't hurt last night and were able to kill Frank Roman before he had another chance at me.”

“Yeah,” Longarm said quietly as he pushed the window curtain aside and looked down at the street. “It worked out, I suppose.”

“What does the
suppose
mean?” she asked, sitting up and pushing a tendril of hair back from her face.

Longarm turned to face her. “I don't know. I didn't feel good about killing him.”

“He stabbed me!” Delia said, voice rising. “Frank meant to kill me and he would have killed you as well.”

“True, but he had what he thought were good reasons.”

“Because I took some of his story ideas?”

“And used the man before you broke his heart.”

Delia sat up in bed, covers falling to her lap, breasts exposed. “Custis, are you worried that I'm going to do the same thing to you? Is that what this is about?”

“No,” Longarm told her without hesitation. “I'm not Frank Roman and I have no illusions about who you are and the lengths that you will go to in order to get what you want.”

He thought she was going to explode, but then Delia took a deep breath and relaxed. “Custis, I told you that I only wanted stories to use for my future dime novels and that I'd change all the names. I don't see what that has to do with Frank Roman.”

“I had to kill him, didn't I?”

“Come here.”

Longarm went over to stand by the bed. “What?”

She began to unbuckle his cartridge belt and then his pants. “I think we need to have a little lovemaking before we leave this hotel room.”

Longarm shook his head. “That isn't going to change how I feel about what happened to Frank Roman.”

“Screw Frank Roman! He was an arrogant, difficult, and self-inflated man who used and discarded women and then couldn't stand being used and discarded himself. He stabbed me and you shot him dead. He would have tried to kill someone else so you did the world a favor by putting the man out of his misery.”

Longarm shook his head but Delia was already in his pants and when she pulled him closer to the bed she rolled over and took him into her mouth.

Damn,
Longarm thought,
I'm no stronger than Roman had been when she starts to do what she does so well
.

 • • • 

Five minutes later he was between her legs and they were lost in the pleasure of lovemaking. Longarm rode her gently, not wanting to hurt her because of the knife wound. But when he was a too gentle, Delia bit his earlobe hard and whispered, “Stop treating me as if I'm breakable! Come on and do me harder!”

Longarm was all too happy to grant her wishes. And when he roared and slammed his seed into her beautiful body, he made up his mind that she was a poison that he dared not take much longer or just like with Frank Roman, the results could be fatal.

The remainder of their train trip to Reno was uneventful. Delia was a little pale from the loss of blood but in high spirits. She had never been to Reno or the famous Comstock Lode and wanted to see them as soon as possible.

“The Comstock mines are mostly played out,” Longarm explained. “The bodies of gold and silver under Virginia City and Gold Hill were discovered in the sixties and seventies and now all of Sun Mountain is honeycombed with mine shafts and tunnels. There hasn't been a huge ore discovery in at least a decade.”

“I've read about what the Comstock was like in its heyday,” Delia said. “It was a wild place.”

“Wild and dangerous,” Longarm added. “Over on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountains the Forty-Niners panned gold out of streams and rivers. But when all the placer gold had been panned out the Comstock Lode was discovered and the same miners raced over the Sierras. Arriving on the Comstock Lode they found that there were no rivers or streams or any kind of good drinking water. No tall ponderosa pines, either. Instead, Sun Mountain is barren with just a few scrawny piñon and juniper pines scattered among the rocks and sage.”

“So the Forty-Niners who had become accustomed to panning gold out of the streams couldn't pan anymore?”

“That's right. Some hammered short tunnels and shafts into the rocky mountainsides but they hadn't a prayer of reaching the big underground ore bodies with mere picks and shovels. That meant they had to lose their precious independence and hire on with the rich mine owners who were building steam hoisting works and drilling deep shafts straight down through the hard rock. The miners found themselves being herded into wire cages and lowered hundreds of feet into the belly of the mountain, then working in dim tunnels that branched off the main shaft.”

“It sounds like it was a brutal existence for miners.”

“It was,” Longarm said, “but the miners formed unions and they made good money. A lot of them died deep underground when their picks broke into underground reservoirs of boiling water or the tunnels collapsed. Even so, the hard rock miners kept arriving from all over the world. I didn't see the Virginia City in her prime, but even ten years ago it was a sight to behold. On C Street there were no less than fifteen saloons, and all of them were packed day and night. They have a big opera house and some amazing mansions.”

“I want to see it all,” Delia told him. “Even if Virginia City has gone bust.”

“Well,” Longarm said, “you can do your sightseeing while I look to find out who murdered federal marshal John Pierce and his wife and who abducted their daughter, Emily.”

“You don't really think you'll find her still alive, do you?”

“I'm an optimist,” Longarm replied. “Emily was young and beautiful and she would bring a steep price down in Mexico.”

Delia nodded. “I can't even imagine a girl like that being taken into slavery and sold as a concubine for sexual pleasure.”

“It's not a pretty picture, but if that did happen, then there is a chance I can find her.”

“Even if you have to go into Mexico where you have no authority?”

“Yes,” Longarm said, “even if I have to go deep into Mexico.”

“I don't think I want to go there,” Delia decided. “I would be afraid of what might happen.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Longarm told her. “Mexico is a very hard and dangerous country. Down along the border there are bandits and raiding Apache. There are all kinds of people who would kill just for pleasure on both sides, and it's no place for a woman like you.”

“You mean a woman with my looks.”

“That's right. You'd attract way too much attention with your blond hair and beautiful face. If I have to cross the border, I'll try to be as inconspicuous as I can, and I damn sure won't tell anyone I'm a federal marshal because that would be needlessly putting a death warrant on my head.”

“So if you decide to ride south to the border, I'll have to decide where I'm going to stay if you return with or without that girl.”

“Exactly.”

Delia patted his thigh. “Well, I'll make that decision when I come to it. The beauty about being a dime novelist is that I can write anywhere I stay.”

“You should have stayed in Denver.”

“If I had,” Delia shot back, “Frank Roman would have killed me by now.”

Longarm agreed. Looking out the window he studied the stunted sage and the long, white stretches of salt and alkali flats. “Nevada is probably the bleakest landscape in the entire West. It has very little drinkable water and the summers are scorching hot while the winters can be bitterly cold. The wind blows across Nevada as hard as it does across Wyoming and Montana.”

“How much farther is it to Reno?”

“We should reach it in about four hours.”

“Is it as ugly as Elko and some of these towns we've passed today?”

“No,” he said, “Reno is beautiful. It's situated at the base of the Sierras and the Truckee River runs right through town. Reno is smaller than Denver but a major city because of the railroad and all the mining and timbering in the area. You'll find it pleasing to the eye.”

“Nice restaurants and hotels?”

“Very nice.”

“Then maybe if you decide to go to Mexico I'll spend a while in Reno.”

“That wouldn't be a bad idea. There are daily stagecoach rides up to the Comstock Lode. It's something not to be missed.”

Delia smiled. “Let's just see where the cards fall after we arrive and then we can both make our decisions.”

“Wouldn't have it any other way,” Longarm said, watching a skinny coyote trot across a ridge of stunted sage and broken rock.