Character Description for Saint: (from the worknotes for The Five Dollar Mail - Book One: The Green)
Saint was tall for an Italian. Probably he had some other blood in there somewhere, something that gave him long legs and a wiry frame to go with his broad shoulders, but didn’t lighten his tanned, olive skin. His dark brown hair seemed always tousled, his forelock forever falling into his eyes, the ends lightening where they escaped from his hat and brushed over his oilcloth-clad shoulders as he rode in the sun atop the stagecoach.
Somewhere in his past, his long nose was broken, likely in a barroom brawl, and healed well, but with a slight hitch. Sharing his face with his sensuous mouth and clear complexion, it almost looked out of place, giving his handsome face a roguish look. Easily his best feature were his eyes. Dark, long-lashed, and possessing an endearing warmth. He had "coal tattoos" on his hands...which are dark marks across his knuckles and one of his wristbones from old scrapes he got working in a coal mine.
He seemed to favor dark colors, especially black, unless he was working and in the sun. Sitting on the wagon-box, he wore well-worn work trousers, suspenders and light-colored shirts like his partner, a black oilcloth duster and a scarf if it was cold or rainy. A black hat, however, was requisite.
Descriptions of Saint as they appear in the text of the story:
"A tall, broad-shouldered man barged insolently through the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and removed a cup. A black hat slouched rudely atop his tousled spill of almost-black hair. He shuffled over to the stove and poured some coffee as if he were on his last legs and here was the Elixer of Life."
"The sunlight spilling through the doorway dimmed again. Lily and Galloway both looked up. Saint had walked into the kitchen with a rough-hewn three-legged stool in his hand, coolly surveying them both. He was a dark, rangy shadow outlined in a nimbus of midmorning light, the stray ends of his long, dark hair dancing in chestnut glints along the tops of his shoulders. He silently strode across the kitchen, taking his time, and set the stool near the sink with a sharp wooden thump. Straightening up, he made eye contact with Richard Galloway from beneath the brim of the ever-present black hat. He did not look happy."
"Saint emerged from a stall, brisking his hands against his thighs in a lazy cloud of dust. Bits of hay clung to his shirt and in his charmingly disheveled hair. His hat was pushed back onto his head, and his olive-skinned face was flushed with heat and exertion. In the shafting yellow light sneaking into the barn, the plain white cotton shirt he wore glowed against his dusky skin."
"Saint took a long drag on his quirly, then let it out into the darkness in a long, silvery stream. His hands had long since stopped shaking, and now he just felt tired and cold. He pulled his duster tighter around himself and settled back in the porch rocker, his booted feet resting up on the porchrail."