Sundance, Butch and Me

by Judy Alter

"It's a party, Etta," he said, his voice ever so slightly slurred. "Come on... join the fun."

  "Why are you celebrating?" I demanded.

  "We're leavin' tomorrow, Etta. I know I told you that. You packed yet?"

  "No," I said. Anger rolled over me. I knew we were leaving soon for Steamboat Springs—wherever in God's name that was—but Sundance had not only not told me we were leaving, he'd acted as though it were a bad idea. And now here he was celebrating because we were going.

  "Etta, it's gonna be all right." Butch came and put an arm around me. He smelled of beer, but his touch was gentle when he leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. "Just trust ol' Butch," he said.

  I held on to him a moment too long, partly for the comfort and partly because some current seemed to be flowing between us. Butch gave me a startled look, and he was the one who pulled away.

  Sundance watched us silently, all the life gone out of his celebration for a moment. Then, ignoring me, he grabbed Annie and said, "Let's dance! Let's party!"

  Sundance, I thought, you're hiding hard from the devils that torment you.

  * * *

  Steamboat Springs made every Wyoming town I'd been in look like a metropolis. The town store, housed in a shack that looked as though it wouldn't last another winter, offered so few supplies that I threatened to send Butch and Sundance back to Denver for staples. There was a saloon, though it looked so dank and unappealing I never did go in it. Sundance went once and came back shaking his head and saying, "Give me Denver." The bank, Butch announced, wasn't worth robbing.

  "Why are we here?" I asked.

  "Can you think of a better place?" Butch replied. "Who else but outlaws on the run would come to this place?"

  I had discovered already that there were medicinal springs everywhere around this mountain town, but I was sure there wasn't a steamboat closer than the Missouri River. When I asked, sarcastically, "Whoever came up with the name Steamboat?" Sundance suddenly took me by the hand and began leading me off into the woods. When I balked, he said impatiently, "Come on."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To the springs," he replied, as though that was totally obvious to anyone.

  We were following a deer trail, and Sundance was walking so fast I nearly tripped a time or two, keeping up with him. I had no choice, however, because he still held my hand fast.

  When I asked, "How far?" he turned with a grin and said, "Women! Always complaining. It's not far. You wanted to know why the name... and I'm going to show you."

  By now I was laughing. "Did you name it? Is that why you're so sensitive?"

  He had the grace to grin. "No, I didn't name it. But I want to show you this."

  We came to a clearing where a spring gurgled. It was maybe a bigger spring than some of the others, and from the steam rising from it, I judged it might be hotter—the others ranged from tepid to pretty hot.

  "So?" I asked loudly.

  "Shhh!" He whirled toward me, his finger to his lips.

  I hushed and listened... and heard a sort of chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug coming from the spring. "So?" I finally repeated.

  "It sounds like a steamboat," he said impatiently. "Can't you tell?"

  I couldn't help laughing. "Sundance, I never saw—or heard—a steamboat in my life. How would I know?"

  He threw his hands into the air. "Just take my word for it, just take my word!"

  The country around almost made up for the town. We camped in a valley about three miles from what passed for the center of town, and all around us were mountains. In mid-March they still had great patches of snow near the tops. The trees hadn't started to bud, but the evergreens made up for that, so that we had a feeling of trees and green and forest. Sundance pitched our tent by an icy stream, with water so clear and cold that I sometimes thought I'd never drink my fill.

  The stream was full of trout, and the meadows nearby were full of grouse and sage hens. Butch and Sundance were triumphant hunters, but I told them it was less because they were good shots than because game was so plentiful. Nonetheless, we ate well around our campfire at night, and I watched the other men wander over, drawn by the aroma of my cooking. Sometimes Butch or Sundance invited one or the other, but mostly they didn't. I left it up to them.

  "I don't have to share everything," Sundance said indignantly once.

  Best of all, though, was the air—clean and crisp and fresh, in a way that made San Antonio seem stale and stifling. I hadn't noticed it, or thought about it, in San Antonio... but once I was back in the mountains, the difference rushed at me. I woke up in the mornings full of energy—much to Sundance's dismay when I pushed and pulled until he got up to hike with me.

  "Just be glad," I told him, "there's no snow on the ground. I've improved my aim."

  "Probably not," he said dryly.

  I took him on long hikes, so that I could stare at one majestic view after another, and we spent our days hunting, riding, and fishing. At night, we fell into bed in exhaustion.

  "Your cheeks are sooo red," he told me one night, "you look like those pictures you see of Alpine milkmaids who live in the mountains."

  "I am so grateful to you for pointing that out," I said sarcastically. "My face is chapped from the wind and burnt from the sun."

  "You look wonderful," he said, and I knew he meant it.

  All told, nearly fifty men came to the meeting Butch had called. But you'd never have known it if you were riding by—they must have camped over a circle of more than five miles. Most simply curled into sleeping rolls at night, huddled around small fires. A few, like Sundance and me, had tents—mostly they were the men who had women with them.

  Elzy Lay was there—without his Maude—and I was glad to see him again. Others were names I'd heard but never put a face to before—Ben Kilpatrick, the Tall Texan, as they called him, who had a woman named Delia with him. She was small and dark, with high cheekbones and a kind of dusky complexion that spoke of Indian blood. She looked, I thought, stern and "mean as an Apache." When I ventured that opinion to Sundance, he told me to hush because she really was Indian but not, he added, Apache. I never felt comfortable around her, as though I couldn't turn my back on her.

  Then there was Will Carver, who had brought Lillie Davis with him, Lillie who had been at Fannie's, Lillie who'd been gone when we were there and about whom I'd never asked. Fannie hadn't volunteered, but now I knew that Lillie, who said she wouldn't be at Fannie's long, had left with Will.

  Will greeted me pleasantly with. "So you're the one who's changed Sundance!" He was nice-looking enough, sort of a pale imitation of Sundance—same height, same sandy coloring, but not nearly as good-looking. But Lillie had changed—she who had been bright and charming and perpetually innocent when I arrived at Fannie's was now old. Her eyes were sad and tired, and her mouth slashed across her face in a straight line, the corners never lifting into that smile that I remembered from years earlier.

  "I know why she's changed," I told Sundance angrily one day as we sat chunking pebbles into the stream and enjoying warm sunshine on our backs. "He hits her. I saw him. He didn't think anyone was around, and he just whacked the flat of his hand against her face. I've no idea what she'd done that made him so angry."

  "Probably never know," Sundance said, looking uncomfortable.

  I thought about Mama and all the abuse she'd taken from Pa. "I can't understand a woman putting up with that," I said in exasperation. "You ever hit me, Sundance, it'll be the last thing you ever do."

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. "I already know that, Etta. Believe me, I know."

  If he'd made a joke about butcher knives right then, I'd have left him—or killed him. But Sundance was smarter than that. "It's not me you're mad at. It's either Will or Lillie... or both."

  I let out a long breath. "I guess it's more Lillie than anything. She makes me think of my mother, and not in a good way."

  "Not all ladies can be you, Etta," he said with a wry grin.

  We were camped
several days before all the men arrived, drifting in one by one. But finally, late one night, they all wandered into a central area where Butch had built a large fire. Some lounged on the ground; others stood watchfully as though ready to bolt at a minute's fright; a few, mounted on horseback, stayed on the perimeter of the group.

  Sundance had told me firmly that the meeting was men's business and I was to stay in our tent. That was, of course, all it took to encourage me to sneak out and hide behind a small cedar bush. In spite of cedar in my nose—which almost made me sneeze—and prickly branches that stuck through my clothes and set me to itching something fierce, I stayed and listened.

  "We could be heroes," Butch was saying. "We'll join Torrey's Rough Riders, go down there to San Juan and beat some sense into those damn Spaniards—we'll be heroes!"

  It was the same argument he'd used—unsuccessfully—on Sundance and Curry in San Antonio, and now he was trying—earnestly trying—to convince fifty outlaws to turn national heroes. It was a quixotic gesture, a naive stance taken by a man so gentle and honest that his fellow outlaws would never understand him. I knew as well as all these men how impractical, even impossible it was, but I wanted to rush out, put my arms around Butch, and protect him from ridicule.

  The others knew, however, that Butch was the boss—that is, if there was a boss. And ridicule him, they wouldn't. Hoot, however, they did.

  "Butch, why would we want to go fight for a country that's try in' to hang us?"

  "Hey, Butch, they'd arrest us before we could sign up."

  "Butch," said one man, his voice somehow quieting all the others, "you know the governors are meeting right now."

  From the startled look on his face, Butch obviously did not know. "Governors?" he echoed.

  "Governors," said the man. "Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, couple other states. Tired of rustling in their states. Now, you know anybody even vaguely associated with the Wild Bunch is on their hit list. And you think they're gonna let us ride off to San Juan?"

  The meeting erupted into a thousand conversations, and finally Butch simply shrugged his shoulders and waved them all away. They stood in tight little knots, talking about who knows what. Outlawry and the damned amateurs who were taking over their business, if Sundance's conversation was any sample. At last, though, they drifted away into the night to their separate camps, and the three of us—Sundance, Butch, and me—were left alone.

  Sundance spoke slowly, even hesitantly. "Butch, if I'd known, I'd never have let you go out—uh—unprepared like that."

  "That's why we had the meeting," Butch said, "so we could share what we knew. Ollie just knew more than the rest of us."

  I realized suddenly that if the roles were reversed—if Sundance was the one who'd left himself exposed as Butch had—the result would have been tight-lipped anger and, eventually, some kind of disaster. But Butch was not bothered by embarrassment. He truly wanted to find the right path to get himself and the others out of a mess that, granted, they had gotten themselves into. Outlawry, which had started out as a lark based on youthful rebellion, had become a quagmire that threatened to pull them all down. And nobody knew that better than Butch.

  "What now, fearless leader?" Sundance asked.

  Butch smiled ruefully. "Well, we ain't goin' to San Juan, that's for sure."

  "I'm for goin' back to Hole-in-the-Wall," Sundance said, to my everlasting amazement.

  Butch narrowed his eyes and looked at him skeptically. "You got a death wish I don't know about?"

  Sundance shook his head. "Naw. I think they raided it twice now—they'll know we've moved on. They'll give up."

  Butch laughed and said, "You may be right. They may be just that easy to figure out."

  "What we got to do," Sundance said, "is make us some plans to get a little money. Like robbing a train."

  "Don't be in a hurry," Butch told him.

  Chapter 19

  Within two days, most of the men had drifted away. Sundance and Butch seemed in no hurry, and I was still enjoying morning walks through the pines, afternoons spent fishing in the stream, fresh game cooked over a fire at night. If asked, I would readily have admitted to my ability to put on blinders when necessary—I simply banished governors' conferences and vigilantes from my mind.

  Ben Kilpatrick approached our camp the second night, calling out "Hallo the camp!"

  "Hey, Ben," Butch called out gladly, "come on in."

  The Tall Texan ambled in, and I was glad to see that Delia was not with him. Sundance gave him a cup of coffee, and the three of them hunkered around the remains of the fire where I'd cooked our supper.

  "Seen a stranger lurking around last day or so," Kilpatrick said slowly. "Couple of us been watching him. Think he's a bounty hunter."

  "Bounty hunter!" Sundance spat in disgust. "How low can they get?"

  Butch threw him a look that would have silenced anyone else, but Sundance went on, "Lawmen can't do their own chasing ain't worth their pay." And then he rambled about amateurs and honor and all kinds of things. I longed to tell him to shut up.

  When Butch finally spoke, it was slowly. "I'm obliged, Ben. Bothers me that Sundance and I didn't see him. Guess we been too comfortable up here. Actin' like we was at home by the fire."

  Ben grinned. "You've every right. Pretty woman cooking good meals for the two of you... say, if I was you, I'd..."

  "You'd what?" Sundance asked insistently.

  Ben shrugged. "I don't know, but I don't guess I'd be watchin' for bounty hunters."

  "We will now, that's for sure," Butch said.

  "Are we leaving? Because of that bounty hunter?" I directed my questions to Sundance, but I really wanted to know what Butch would say.

  Sundance held me at arm's length and looked me straight in the eye, his expression serious. "Etta Place, that's men's business."

  I pulled away from him. "Men's business be damned. It affects me, too. If there's a bounty hunter after us, I want to know." I was angry at him, indignant.

  It didn't matter to Sundance. Grinning, he said, "I don't think he's after you, Etta. You rob any banks lately?"

  "Sundance," I said, my tone threatening, "you be serious with me." Then I turned. "Butch?" But he had melted into the trees.

  Sundance and I'd been standing face-to-face, inches apart, and now he swallowed me in his arms, kissing me passionately in spite of a definite lack of response on my part. "I am serious," he said huskily, "always."

  I pulled away, but it didn't seem to bother him.

  * * *

  In April, Walt Puteney and George O'Day were acquitted of all charges. By then, we were back at Hole-in-the-Wall, though I'd never have predicted that. I was delighted, though Sundance repeatedly warned me not to get too attached to any one spot. Still, I puttered in the kitchen, cooking the two of them grand meals—when they had any success hunting—and felt more at home than I had anyplace else. Secretly I knew that no matter where else we went, Hole-in-the-Wall would be home to me, in a way that neither Ben Wheeler nor San Antonio ever had been.

  "Acquitted?" I asked. "Isn't that good news?" After all, Butch and Sundance and the others had raised funds for their defense, no matter by what means. That, I reasoned, meant some degree of concern.

  Sundance cocked his head to one side, a skeptical gesture I was by now familiar with. "Not right now. Just means all those 'law-abiding citizens' will be madder than ever to think outlaws got off without being punished. They'd have rather seen them hanged."

  The bounty hunter was still with us, having followed us during a many-day, difficult ride over the mountains between Steamboat Springs and Wyoming. He'd stayed a half day behind us all the way, and now he stayed outside the Hole, on the plains. I wondered how he could possibly attend to his bodily needs—food, sleep, elimination—because whenever I looked from the notch, there he was, sitting ahorseback, out there without any shelter. It was early April and still cold at night, but we never saw any sign of a campfire. One night it came a thunderstorm—too e
arly for the spring storms, but nonetheless fierce. As I lay in my blankets, wrapped in the warmth and safety of Sundance's arms, I wondered if that man was still out there sitting on his horse, soaking wet, staring at the notch in the wall.

  Finally, one day, after we'd been back at the Hole maybe a week, the bounty hunter rode ever so slowly toward the notch. Butch had been keeping watch, but he sounded the alarm, and Sundance and I soon joined him. So did Ben Kilpatrick, who was at the Hole with us, though Delia stayed behind at the cabin and didn't come to the notch. The men all had rifles.

  We watched, spellbound, as the man approached, waving a white flag.

  "You go see what he wants," Butch said to Sundance. "We'll cover you."

  "Me?" Sundance yelped. "I got responsibilities—Etta and all—and besides, it's you he probably wants, Butch."

  Butch nodded. "I know. That's why I'm not goin'."

  "I'll go," I said evenly. "He's not going to hurt me."

  All three men stared at me. While Butch said, "You'd do that?" Sundance said, with equal emotion, "You'll not do that!" and Ben said, "I never knew a woman would do anything like that."

  "Etta, you don't understand, bounty hunters... they're the lowest of the low. He's liable to use you as a shield... no telling what else." Sundance spoke earnestly.

  "Sundance is right," Butch said. "Lowest of the low. Mean skunks. Can't trust that white flag he's wavin'."

  "Would you all be quiet?" I asked. "Just kind of watch out for me."

  "We'll have our sights trained on him all the time," the Tall Texan said.

  That gave me pause. I'd assured Fannie that they never killed—and Sundance would only kill in self-protection. Well, this would kind of be self-protection, wouldn't it? That is, if they had to shoot. With that irrational thought in mind, I mounted my horse.

  I waited until the man was close enough that I wouldn't have to ride far—or be exposed for too long—and then I started down the incline toward the plains. I had no white handkerchief to wave—can you believe not one of the three of them had a linen handkerchief?—but I figured my white shirtwaist and the way I wore my hat would tell him I was a lady. Anyway, I hoped so.