by Judy Alter
"Etta, Etta, you can't change their lives. But, yes, we'll go."
"Didn't have to give them the last of the whiskey," Butch protested. "I mean, that was an amazing thing you did, Kid, and I... well, I hope you're around if I ever get gangrene.... No, maybe I don't. But anyway, did you have to give him the last bit we got?"
"It isn't the last," Sundance said patiently. "There's another bottle in the cupboard." He reached into a shelf over the cookstove.
Butch lowered his eyes. "I drank that," he said slowly.
"You drank it?" Sundance was incredulous. "You didn't share? Do you know how far it is to Kaycee and another bottle?"
"It gets cold of a night," Butch said, with almost a whine in his voice, "and I ain't got no one to keep me warm." His look at Sundance was clear in its meaning.
Sundance began to laugh. "That," he said, "is your own fault. You're not getting any sympathy from me. And you best get to Kaycee in the next day or two and bring us some whiskey."
"You don't need it," Butch said, his meaning again clear.
Sundance smiled and put an arm around me. "You're probably right," he said, pulling me out the door.
I felt bad for Butch—and worse for Mr. Donaldson.
"Why were you so darned cheerful?" I demanded when we were alone. "You could at least have been sorry about having to do that."
He looked genuinely hurt. "If I'd come in there talking soft and tellin' him I was sorry, he'd have never let me do what needed to be done. I had to make him believe I knew what I was doing."
"Did you?"
He shrugged. "I knew the gangrene part had to come off 'fore it spread all through his body."
"But," I protested, "that part about wood and the sun...."
"I made it up. Pretty good for the spur of the moment, don't you think?"
He was obviously proud of himself, and I finally told him he had a right to feel that way.
* * *
The second thing that happened was really in late spring—what would have been summer in Texas but in Wyoming still felt like winter. It also involved neighbors, people I'd never heard of before, but that Butch and Sundance knew.
Sometime in late April, Butch disappeared for almost a week, only to return leading a string of fine, proud horses—deep chested, long-legged Thoroughbreds. Butch and Sundance, who were sometimes careless about feeding the stock because they knew I'd do it, now became religious about feeding these horses. They were fed grain, not hay, twice a day. And the two of them rode each horse every day—they'd disappear early in the morning, and reappear in time for the midday meal. Then they'd switch horses and be off again. This seemed to go on for weeks.
But they lost one of those horses in a way that made them angrier than I'd yet seen the two of them. One day when the sun had already sunk behind the mountains and the evening cold had set in, there was a great shouting outside. "Halloo the house!"
"It's Curry," Sundance said.
"Wonder what he wants?" Butch mused. "Sure makin' a lot of noise."
"He's not eating," I said, and Sundance laughed.
Both of them stayed seated. I'd have thought they'd be up and out the door to see what was the matter. Within seconds, though, Kid Curry burst into the cabin.
"Gonna take one of them good horses out back," he said.
Quick as a flash, Sundance pulled a pistol, leveled it at him, and said, "No. You're not." With his head, he motioned for me to move across the room.
Curry snarled. "Put the gun away, Sundance. I gotta have the horse."
"Oh, swell," Sundance said, still pointing the pistol. "I know. You've led the law right to us."
"Not if you give me the damn horse and let me get away." Desperation made his voice crack, and I was amused to see fear—or at least anxiety—in the tough Kid Curry.
"What happened?" Butch asked it as though he barely cared.
"That fellow Dean, the Texan that the Johnson County sheriff hired. Caught him at Griggs's and would've had him dead center, but Mrs. Griggs, she grabbed the end of my rifle and pointed it up so all that happened was they got a hole in the ceiling. Dean, he got away, and I know he's after me."
Sundance was on his feet, indignant. "You shot up the Griggs house? With their kids there?"
"Naw," Curry said, speaking quickly, as though if he could get this over with, they'd give him the horse and he'd leave.
"Mrs. Griggs, she sent the kids down into the cellar."
Butch spoke as slowly as Curry did rapidly. "Those are our friends, Curry. You don't go shootin' up your friends' houses."
"But there was a lawman in there—one that's liable to get you for rustling those horses outside. You give me one, I'll lead him the other way."
"What're you leavin' us?" Sundance asked. "Some old thing you've run to death?"
"It's a good horse," Curry protested. "Just winded. It'll be all right."
As he rode away on the finest horse in the corral, Curry called out, "See you in Belle Fourche."
The horse was a good one—not as fine as Butch's string, but strong and healthy.
"Tell you, Sundance, I don't trust him," Butch said as they watched Curry disappear. "Someday he'll bring us all trouble. He's mean."
Sundance laughed. "Outlaws are supposed to be mean, Butch. You're just the one who's not."
For two days, we took turns watching from the notch, making sure that Curry hadn't led the law to us. It was cold, so none of us could stay up there long at a time.
"You don't have to watch," Sundance said once when Butch was at the notch and he and I were sharing a breakfast of flapjacks. I longed for eggs and grits and the lavish breakfasts I'd had at Fannie's.
"I'll take my turn," I said sharply. If I hadn't, it would have been because I was a woman... and not equal among them. "What's in Belle Fourche?" I asked, remembering Curry's parting words.
"A bank," Sundance said.
"And when were you going to tell me about it?" I asked.
"Ah, Etta, we're just beginning to think about it."
The string of fine horses and the long hours spent toughening them made clear sense to me then. And so did the fact that I wasn't in on the planning, at least the beginning stages.
"Isn't it time to get out the map?" I asked. "Where is Belle Fourche?"
It turned out that Curry had been riding the country looking for a likely bank. Belle Fourche in South Dakota was the place he said looked the best, with an easy getaway. A man named O'Day was going with us.
Sitting at the table, we worked out the plan. Mostly Butch worked it out, but I got in a word or two, and Sundance mostly insisted it wouldn't work.
"I'll leave in a week," Butch said, "and you two will leave two days after that. There'll be a buckboard and two harness horses in Kaycee, so you ride the two horses we least need to get away—the sorrel and that one that threatens to lame up all the time—and board them in Kaycee."
Sundance suddenly seemed to realize what Butch was saying. "A buckboard? Oh, that's swell. We'll really outrun a posse in a buckboard." He poured himself another whiskey.
"You'll look more like a couple traveling 'cross country in a buckboard," he said.
"And why don't you ride in the damn buckboard?"
Butch grinned ever so slightly. "Because you're the one takin' Etta with you. Besides," and he lowered his head slightly, "I got to go someplace first."
"Lander," Sundance said in disgust. "We can't even rob a bank without you havin' to go to Lander and tell where we'll be. Hope the law never finds out about her."
"She has to know, in case..." Butch spoke with quiet determination, but then his voice trailed off. In a moment, he was back to business. "We'll all meet about here"—his finger stubbed a point on the map—"ten miles out of Belle Fourche. We'll camp, send O'Day in to serve as lookout."
"O'Day?" Sundance asked. "Only thing he ever looked out for was himself."
"Town should be quiet," Butch went on, as though Sundance hadn't spoken. "They have a big veterans' celebratio
n the weekend of June 26 and 27. We'll hit on Monday. Bank should be full, people tired."
"Good timing," Sundance admitted.
Butch left one week later, and Sundance and I spent two days alone at Hole-in-the-Wall.
"You want to ride up in the mountains?" I asked one day when the weather was cool and clear. "We can catch some trout for dinner."
"I'd rather go to bed," he said.
"Not," I said primly, "in the middle of the day."
"But there's no one here to know, 'cept you and me." He pulled me toward him and kissed me so hard that I almost gave in. But we went fishing and had fine trout for dinner.
"We are coming back here, aren't we?" I asked as we lingered at the rough wooden table over cups of coffee, his strongly laced with whiskey.
"If everything goes like it should," Sundance said. "I guess we'll come back as long as we're alive and not in jail."
"That won't happen," I said, still positive that nothing could touch us on this grand adventure. "But Butch doesn't believe that, does he? That's why he goes to Lander before any robbery."
"Doesn't take a detective to figure that out," Sundance said.
"Would you come see me before a big robbery?" I asked, knowing he wouldn't.
"I'm doin' better," he said. "I'm taking you with me."
"Sundance," I asked, "am I the only lady outlaw in Wyoming?"
He shrugged. "I've heard rumors of one or two—cattle rustlers. Don't think I know of any that rob banks, but probably some guy takes his lady with him, just like I do. Does it matter? You want to be the only one?"
"Yes," I whispered, "I do. At least, I want to be the boldest."
"That's some goal to set yourself in life, Etta." Even Sundance was taken aback.
"You're the best outlaw bunch...."
"Yeah," he said, "and we keep getting blamed for botched robberies that amateurs do. Law doesn't even know professionalism when it sees it."
I laughed aloud and flew into his arms. Sundance, more than anyone I had met, could twist facts and interpretations until he was always on the right side. For him, there was none of Butch's moral deliberation.
"Let's leave the dishes till tomorrow," he said huskily.
* * *
We followed Butch's plan. A buckboard was waiting in Kaycee, two mules hitched to it.
"Mules! Damn mules! He said harness horses!" Sundance was beside himself with disgust as we rode away. "Just wait till I get Cassidy for this one. He did it deliberately."
"To humble you?" I asked.
"To ridicule is more like it."
June is beautiful in Wyoming. In Texas, it would already be sweltering hot, but here it was the kind of day that made you want to stay outside forever. We rode northeasterly—Belle Fourche was barely over the state line into Dakota, but north almost to the Wyoming-Montana line. As we went farther north, the grasslands finally changed into hills—the Black Hills, Sundance told me—and it was there, at a prearranged spot, that we met up with Kid Curry, Butch, and George O'Day. It was late Saturday, June 26, when we arrived.
O'Day was younger than the others, and more happy-go-lucky-looking. Short and sort of pudgy, he had eyes that laughed—not with the magnetism of Sundance's, but they were happy eyes. Outlaws, I still thought, should have the staring angry eyes of Curry. O'Day bowed charmingly over my hand when we were introduced and seemed not at all disturbed to hear that I would ride with them on Monday.
"She gonna' cook?" Curry asked.
"We'll take turns like always," Butch said. "I'll cook tonight."
"Never mind, Butch," I told him. "I'll do it." And then everyone except Curry had a good laugh about Butch's cooking.
O'Day rode into town the next morning, while the rest of us lounged around. I had the latest Harper's Weekly to read, and there was a stream nearby where we tried to fish but were so unsuccessful we had to eat bacon and biscuits for dinner. When he came back that night, O'Day nearly fell off his horse but managed to catch himself.
"Gran' party," he said, and the smell of stale whiskey and tobacco nearly knocked me over.
"You're drunk," Sundance said. "And that's dumb. You know, we don't drink when we work."
"Had t'look like I was one o' the boys," O'Day mumbled. "Be all right. Now they know me, won't sus-sus-pect when I ride in again tomorrow."
"Go sleep it off," Butch told him angrily.
George O'Day got no supper that night. But next morning he was up early, chipper as could be. "See ya in town," he called.
"Do you trust him?" I asked Sundance.
"Much as I trust anyone, 'cept you and Butch," he said. "You're different."
We left the buckboard and mules behind. "Someone will get them," Butch assured me—there it was again, those mysterious people who supplied buckboards, appeared with horses when needed, picked up loose horses left behind. The Wild Bunch had a lot of faces that remained, to me, still unseen.
We rode into town about one-thirty in the afternoon, riding leisurely. But Butch was looking intently for O'Day. Finally, as we passed the saloon, O'Day staggered out into the street. There was no other word for it. The man was drunk again.
"Damn," Sundance muttered.
"Curry, get O'Day's horse and then hold all the horses in front of the bank," Butch ordered tersely. "Etta, you come inside with us. Keep your rifle trained on folks, but please, please, don't shoot."
O'Day shambled into the bank with us.
"This is a stickup," Butch said, and I almost laughed at how corny that sounded. The five or six customers in the bank didn't think it corny at all and quickly lined up against the wall, Butch waving them that way with his rifle. Sundance, meanwhile, was forcing the clerks and cashier from behind the teller's cage.
"You can't do this," one clerk protested. "We just had our big celebration... and..."
"And there's lots of money in the vault," Sundance finished for him. "You just stand real quiet there, and no one will get hurt."
Dressed in Sundance's clothes, my hair tucked under a hat, my face slightly blackened with dirt, I thought I looked a credible outlaw as I held my rifle fixed firmly on the whole line of people. Instead of nerves—about which I had wondered—I felt a sense of exhilaration. Oh, I never would have shot those people, and I was even a little sorry for them, scared as they were—I think to this day that one of the tellers wet himself. But I was holding a rifle on people, I was the one in charge. Any minute a sheriff could come running in the door, and that danger even sent a thrill through me. I almost laughed aloud, but I knew better. It would have distracted Butch and Sundance, who were filling saddlebags with money from the vault and the tellers' cage.
One woman snuffled quietly, and I waved my rifle at her slightly. It seemed foolish of her to cry, and I wanted her to know that.
Too soon for me, Butch said, "You all go into that back room there." He motioned with his guns, and when they were all crowded into the room, he locked the door behind them.
"That one lady," I said, as we dashed for the door, "she had a ring I really liked."
"No, Etta," Sundance said sternly.
We jumped on our horses, nearly knocking O'Day out of the way, and were thundering out of town when Sundance said, "O'Day's not on his horse. We got the horse, but he's back there in town."
"We ain't stoppin'," Butch said. "I told him no drinkin'."
I didn't feel one bit sorry for George O'Day. Later, I would laugh at what happened to him, and, finally, I would be angry when I learned that half of what we took that day went to pay for the fancy lawyer who eventually had him acquitted of all charges. But that gets me ahead of my story.
Chapter 16
There were fresh horses eighteen miles away, and we rode at a breakneck speed for them. Butch figured it would be dark before the posse reached the same point, and we could ride more slowly. At a certain point, where the ground was bare of grass and less likely to leave a trail, we turned sharply south. By midnight, we were at Rye Grass Creek, many miles from Bel
le Fourche, and Butch said we could rest.
That morning, at first light, we split up. Sundance and I were again to be an ordinary married couple traveling across Wyoming. "We've been to family at New Castle," he said, "and now we're heading home to Kaycee, if anyone asks." I had transformed myself into a woman, changing Sundance's hand-me-downs for a split skirt and white shirt, crumpled though it was. My hair was loose under my hat, and Sundance assured me no one would take me for a man, let alone a bank robber.
We did meet someone—a sheriff from Spearfish, up close to Belle Fourche—and he told us what happened to O'Day.
"Damndest thing," he said, telling us what he'd learned over the wire service while he was in Casper on business. "They left one man behind, or else he left himself behind. Word is, he was drunk. Anyway, when his horse went with the others, he supposedly went up to someone in town and asked as nice as could be if he could borrow a horse, because his had left without him. Then he hid in an outhouse, but someone saw him go in and threw down on him. He came out with his hands up, and all they could find on him was a pint of whiskey and some cartridges. But they turned the outhouse over and found a gun. Got him in jail. You ever hear of a dumber robber?"
Sundance forced a laugh and said no, he never had.
"Did they catch the other men?" I asked with wide-eyed innocence.
"No, ma'am. Lost the trail in the dark, and come morning they never could find it again."
I shook my head and made a tsk tsk noise to show my disapproval, and Sundance muttered, "Damn shame." I wasn't sure if he meant O'Day or what, but the sheriff took it that he meant it was a damn shame the robbers had gotten away.
"It was sure to God that Wild Bunch," the man went on. "We'll get 'em. Well, you folks have a good day and keep your eyes open in this country. Never know when you'll run into one of them desperadoes."
As he rode away, he was still chuckling and saying, "Hid in an outhouse!"
Sundance rode silently, his jaw set, never looking at me, never looking back. After about five miles, he turned in the saddle and scanned the land. The sheriff was out of sight.
"Ride like hell," he told me, spurring his horse. Without a question, I followed his lead, and we rode until the horses had to rest.