Broken Heart Face Tattoo
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A few days after the attack on the ranch, Tom and I were walking down a path that ran from our house to the barn when we heard voices coming closer. A man’s voice. “Where in tarnation did you get this?” said another. It was followed by laughter, but neither Tom nor I knew what it meant. We looked at one another for a moment before hurrying to catch up with them.
The two men rode into view. The taller of the two stopped his horse about twenty yards away from us and dismounted, pulling a flask from his pocket as he spoke to the shorter man who remained seated on his horse. Both wore western hats, but the tall man had a beard while his companion had none.
They were dressed in black suits and carried pistols tucked into their waistbands. They were not bandits. One was Thomas Larkin, who owned half of my ranch; the other was Sam Davenport, a wealthy rancher whose cattle we sold most every year. We were friends, although they weren’t particularly fond of me or my family.
“This ain’t yours,” the first said, waving an arm toward Tom’s left cheek. “You know better than to be getting your face tattooed.” He walked over and handed Tom a bottle of whiskey. Tom took a sip, then wiped some foam from the corner of his mouth and said nothing more.
Neither man asked him why he had a tattoo. Tom had never told anyone about it—not even me. But now it might be necessary if I wanted to keep my head.
The men talked for a while longer, taking turns pouring out whiskey. After the second cup, each man raised a glass. They drank, then both turned back to us as if we’d just appeared out of nowhere. “I’ve got to go,” Davenport said. He kicked his horse’s ribs and headed toward town.
“We’ll talk later,” he called over his shoulder. He was gone less than ten minutes later, and I watched until he disappeared around the bend in the road. When Tom and I returned to our home, neither of us mentioned the incident.
A few days after that, Sam Davenport’s men came again, looking for Tom. This time they were accompanied by a local sheriff, who rode into view at almost the same time as Tom. As soon as Tom saw him he started backing away from the barn, but the three men had already drawn their guns. The sheriff pulled off his hat. “Don’t make me shoot you where you stand,” he growled.
Tom kept backing away, moving slowly so as not to draw any attention from the others. The sheriff fired two shots. I heard only one, but Tom fell to his knees, clutching his chest. The sheriff shouted something like, “Hold it!” Then all four men charged into our yard.
The sheriff grabbed Tom’s hair and dragged him across the ground behind the barn, leaving bloody footprints in the dirt. I went outside and joined them, but I wasn’t going to help them. My father had taught me how to handle myself, and I’d been practicing every day since I could walk.
As the men searched for Tom, I slipped around to the front of the barn and opened the door, letting it swing closed. One of the sheriff’s deputies spotted me and shouted. I darted inside and shut the door behind me, then listened to see if anyone else would come running after me.
No one did. I hurried through the dark barn, past stalls filled with horses and cows and chickens, to the far end where I found a door leading to the kitchen. There, I climbed a step ladder and peered through a window high above the floor. From there I had a good view of the sheriff’s search of the barn. Tom lay flat on the dirt floor with his arms tied behind his back; the sheriff stood over him while the other two deputies held his feet against the ground.
One of the deputies was Sam Davenport. He pointed at Tom and said, “I don’t want to hear him say anything.” Then he bent down and punched Tom in the side of the head. The blow sent Tom sprawling, but he managed to stay conscious.
“Don’t move,” the sheriff ordered Tom, who was struggling to rise. “I don’t want to hurt you too badly. But I will if you make me mad.” He struck Tom again, hard enough to knock his head against the floorboards, and again. Finally, Tom stopped resisting, lying motionless on the ground.
While one of the other deputies held Tom down, the sheriff took a handkerchief from his pocket, knotted it around Tom’s forehead, and pressed the cloth between two fingers. “How many times do I have to tell you?” Davenport barked. “I ain’t going to pay for no damn stitches. Do you need stitches? Go get ’em yourself.”
Tom struggled to sit up as the sheriff stood and began to leave the barn, but one of the deputies caught him before he could stand. I couldn’t see what the sheriff was doing because my position didn’t allow me to look over his shoulder, but I assumed he was taking whatever money he wanted from Tom’s pockets.
A few minutes later I watched as Davenport rode away with his men, heading in the direction of town.
When Tom finally stood, he was unsteady on his feet, so I helped him into the kitchen and sat him in one of the chairs at the table. He didn’t say a word, not even when I brought him a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. It seemed best to let him think things over quietly in silence.
When he finished eating, I washed his face and hands in the sink while Tom looked on without speaking or asking for anything more. At least he’d stopped moaning and groaning; maybe he was starting to understand what might be expected of him.
“You better go back to your room now,” I told him.
He nodded, and we went upstairs together. In his room, I turned on the light and pulled out his chair and stool. Then I went through his clothing, pulling out anything worth saving. I folded each article and stacked them in a pile on top of his bed, ready to pack when the time came. After checking his boots for dust, I left him alone, figuring I’d wait until morning to tell him about Sam Davenport’s visit.
***
It was almost dawn by the time I finished with Tom. Once I was certain he wouldn’t wake up during the night, I locked the door to his room and snuck back downstairs to my own bedroom. The sound of a horse’s hooves echoed loudly through the house and I knew they were coming to collect Tom soon. I’d have to sneak away as well.
My father often asked me why I liked being a detective as much as I did, but now that he was gone I realized that the work had its advantages. For instance, it was easy to slip away and leave town without worrying about how people might react.
I’d worked for many years in Boston and Chicago, cities where the crime was a way of life. But there was something different about this case: the fact that Tom was involved and the possible danger to him. My concern for Tom was genuine, but the real reason for my desire to get him free from jail was simple jealousy.
I was afraid that if he escaped, he would be gone and I might never see him again.
As the sheriff’s carriage rolled toward town, I slipped into the woods behind our ranch house. There was no telling whether the marshal would take him straight to jail after leaving the sheriff’s office, but I decided not to risk it. Besides, I wanted to talk to Tom before he was taken away.
In the darkness, I followed the faint trail Tom had made through the trees. Soon I was close enough to hear voices, which sounded like they were coming from the road. As soon as we passed, I stepped into an opening in the underbrush to watch him ride past, then followed the tracks in the mud.
I had lost sight of Tom and his horse when I heard someone running in the distance and turned to see one of the deputies chasing after me. He was gaining fast, and I ran as fast as I could, slipping on wet leaves as I went. Fortunately, it was getting lighter, and within seconds of running full out, I caught sight of the deputy’s red shirt.
I ducked inside a clump of bushes to hide and waited for him to pass. It was a little embarrassing to know he’d been watching me run.
After waiting several minutes, I emerged from my hiding place and followed Tom’s footprints in the grass to the edge of the river. By the time I reached the water’s edge, a man’s voice rang out. “Damn! Where in tarnation are you?”
I froze, wondering if I should try to escape or stay hidden where I was. I could see nothing in front of me except water lapping against a sandy bank.
“Over here!” came another shout.
A second later, Tom appeared from behind a tree.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay put?” Davenport ordered. “Get back there!”
I could only see two men on horses as they rode down the riverbank, their horses’ hooves crashing through the brush. One of them shouted again, but his words were too muffled to make out.
“Where is he? Tell me or else.” Davenport drew his gun.
The other man answered, saying something about how I must have jumped into the river. His tone sounded angry; maybe he didn’t want Tom to come after me either.
Tom said something and both men laughed. They continued along the bank, and I stayed hidden until they rode up onto the graveled road. I took a deep breath, hoping they’d forgotten me. I stepped from behind my bush and walked slowly in their direction, making sure my feet didn’t make any noise on the ground.
When they passed, I went back to the spot where Tom had disappeared and found him lying in the weeds. The cold water had soaked through his clothes.
“Come on,” I urged.
But he shook his head. “They’ll shoot me if they catch me,” he replied. “And besides… it’s too late.”
I knelt beside him, looking around for clues that might help us. The sheriff would have sent someone to look for Tom once he was freed from jail. I wasn’t sure how far that search had gone, but since the marshal already knew who Tom was, it would take him less than a day to find Tom’s horse and trace him back here.
Tom looked at me with concern, as though he sensed my worry, but when I tried to speak he shook his head and refused to answer. I felt so helpless: all alone in the dark and unable to protect anyone. What had I done by agreeing to save Tom? I should have known better than to think it would end well.
***
The next morning I met Ben, who had been called on to replace the marshal. He told me that he had spoken to Tom before he was released from jail, but hadn’t yet seen him and had no idea what he was doing now.
I asked him how it was possible that Tom could have gotten himself in this mess and not even know why. It seemed strange to me that he’d never once mentioned his brother. Perhaps he hadn’t thought I was smart enough to understand his reasoning, but I certainly would have liked to have talked to him about it.
Ben agreed to ask around town to see if anyone recognized Tom, just as I had planned to do, and I headed over to the saloon. It was still early, and a few people sat at tables near the bar, drinking beer, but most were already seated at tables eating breakfast.
There were a couple of cooks working in the kitchen; when they saw me they stopped chopping vegetables and started laughing. Their mirth increased as they watched me approach. One of them grabbed another’s arm and pointed toward me. They began to walk toward me when I heard a familiar voice call out, “Sheriff!”
The cook waved wildly as if to say, “It’s him!” The other one kept on walking toward me, while the first turned to watch.
Both men froze when Tom entered the saloon. He glanced my way but then stared at Ben as if he expected an explanation.
“This lady has been asking after your whereabouts,” Ben told him.
Tom’s face lit up, and he quickly moved forward to shake hands with the deputy.
“You’re welcome,” Ben replied.
He led Tom to the table where I sat, introducing myself to his brothers and sisters-in-law. We all got to talking about Tom, and after a few minutes, the cook returned.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding apologetic. “If you don’t mind… I’m going to get rid of those two right now.”
His gesture caused Tom’s sister to stand abruptly. She rushed to join her husband, who stood staring at Tom, his face pale and set.
“What did you do?” she demanded. “How dare you bring someone here like this.”
Ben reached for Tom, intending to pull him away, but the woman stopped him by grabbing his shirt collar. The cook came rushing into the saloon, his hands flailing like a man who’d lost control of his horse.
“Who are you? How dare you come in here?” he cried out, pointing his finger at Tom.
“Let go,” Tom ordered. But the woman refused to release his shirt. Instead, she pushed him aside and slapped him across the cheek.
“Leave her alone,” Tom yelled angrily, but the cook wouldn’t listen, so Tom shoved him. The other cook charged at Tom, trying to push him away. The cook fell backward, hitting the ground hard with a thud. His head bounced off the floor, and I heard him groan.
The cook staggered to his feet and lunged again, but Tom grabbed his arms and pulled him down. As both men wrestled on the floor, the cook managed to grab a knife and swung at Tom. The blade hit him in the thigh, but he ignored the pain and grabbed the cook by his coat lapels.
He threw him against the wall, and I jumped up to intervene but couldn’t reach them before they separated.
The cook went for the door, but Ben blocked the exit and forced Tom to sit back down.
“I won’t let you go outside,” Ben warned him.
Tom nodded in agreement, and Ben opened the front door to allow a cool breeze to blow inside. Then he took the cook away, saying he would put him in jail until we figured out what to do with him. When the cook was gone, I helped the cook to his feet.
He didn’t seem badly hurt; instead, he seemed stunned that Tom had fought back instead of allowing himself to be thrown out on the street.
One of Tom’s sisters-in-law came to see what was happening. She looked at Tom accusingly. “What did he do?” she demanded.
Tom answered that he hadn’t done anything. The woman turned to the sheriff. “Didn’t you hear him apologize for hitting our brother?” she asked.
“That’s exactly why I wanted you to stay out of it,” I told her. “We’ve never had a fight in this town that didn’t involve bloodshed or broken bones.”
Tom glared at me and tried to speak but couldn’t get any words past the lump in his throat. Ben interrupted us, warning the women not to take sides in a domestic dispute. They grudgingly agreed to stop arguing, and the three of them left the saloon.
I could sense Tom’s anger growing when I offered to help him find work in town. He declined my offer with a curt nod, but after a few seconds, he said, “Thank you,” and followed me to Ben’s office.
After Ben unlocked the door and let Tom in, he motioned for me to wait outside. I listened as he and Tom talked quietly in the corner of the room, then Ben closed the door and went to sit behind his desk.
“I can’t understand it,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “I thought we had a good thing going here, and instead…”
He paused as if searching for words to describe Tom’s behavior. When he realized no explanation could make up for Tom’s actions, he sighed heavily.
“There must be some way to fix things,” he said, “other than just letting him walk away.”
I felt sorry for Ben because I knew what a big responsibility he had taken on. I also wondered how many times this sort of incident had happened during his time as marshal and whether he ever got a chance to sleep peacefully at night.
When Ben finally opened the door, I stepped inside and waited for him to lock it. After closing the door, he sat down behind his desk again while I remained standing.
“So, how bad is it?” I asked.
“Not so bad,” he replied, “but Tom’s sister-in-law doesn’t think so.”
She wasn’t happy with Tom’s apology, and it seemed clear she planned to complain about him to anyone who would listen. It occurred to me that she might even try to press charges against him if she discovered Tom had brought a woman in her brother’s place. I hoped there was nothing like that in the rules of marriage.
“Why don’t you send her away for now,” I suggested, “until we figure something out.”
Ben frowned. “You know, you really shouldn’t talk about these things without asking first. What if someone overheard you?”
“It’s all right,” I insisted. “I’m an unmarried woman living with your nephew. I assume you have no problem sharing your problems with me.”
He nodded reluctantly. I could tell from his expression that this wasn’t a subject he wished to discuss. So instead I changed the topic, and soon he had forgotten that Tom was still in the building.
“Have you heard about Miss Biddie?” I asked, using the nickname he gave me.
“No,” he admitted. “Is she sick again?”
“Just her luck to get married only to suffer a miscarriage,” I remarked. “I wonder where she’ll turn next? Will she go to one of your sisters-in-law or try to get work elsewhere?”
“How did you learn about her misfortune?”
“Through the grapevine,” I confessed. “But I don’t think you have to worry about losing her.”
“Because of this new saloon?”
“That’s part of it,” I answered. “The other reason is Tom. He’s a hard worker and a loyal friend. But the fact that you’re paying him a salary and providing food and shelter will be a deciding factor.”
“I hope you are right,” he said. “Otherwise it’s just another case of the rich getting richer. I hate to say it, but I’ve always found it more difficult to keep a poor man out of trouble than a rich one.”
His words reminded me of what I saw in Tom’s eyes the day he rode into town. I suspected his life had been a struggle until he met Ben. His family must have moved often before they settled in San Francisco. That meant he’d lived through several moves, leaving little personal property behind, and it explained why he was so desperate for a job.
As I watched Ben working late into the evening, I considered the possibility that he may not want to give up Tom. In his mind, there was no way around the fact that his nephew was a drunk. The only choice left to him was either to continue employing him or watch the saloon go under.
With his limited financial resources, it wasn’t a question of which was best, but rather which would cause fewer losses. And that was assuming that I could somehow change Tom’s attitude toward me so he wouldn’t quit in disgust over a few days’ worths of hard work.
I tried to imagine what kind of woman could change Tom’s thinking about me. If only he hadn’t been so angry when we first met, perhaps I might have had a chance. At least I could hope that Tom would eventually accept me as a fellow employee instead of a paid companion.
Maybe by the time Tom learned I wasn’t interested in stealing his job, we could have developed an understanding between us. I hoped it was possible, because, without his help, I didn’t see how we were going to open the saloon in a week.
***
By Sunday afternoon, I had spent every waking hour in Ben’s office and was exhausted. But my work wasn’t done yet. I couldn’t let the weekend go by without visiting the church so that I could meet the pastor and see for myself if there was any chance of opening services in the next two weeks.
The End