Sundance, Butch and Me

by Judy Alter

  "It's mutual," he said, "and I'll always be around for you. But..." His last word hung in the air.

  * * *

  The cabin at Hole-in-the-Wall was a mess. Rodents had gotten in, split open the sacks of flour and cornmeal, and left their litter in every corner. I scrubbed floors on my hands and knees, stood on tiptoe to clean shelves, shook bedding and beat rugs until I was exhausted. It was not the behavior of a woman who planned to run away. I was there to stay, and I knew it—even if I didn't want to admit it aloud.

  "Want me to help?" Butch asked twenty times.

  "It's woman's work," I replied each time. Truth was, scrubbing floors did for me what running off to Elko supposedly did for Sundance. It kept my mind off scary subjects—like the future.

  When I did stop to think, I couldn't decide if I was more angry or worried. But Sundance was there, on my mind, every waking moment. What would I say when he came back—or what would he say when he found me right where he expected me? My threat of leaving seemed hollow and empty, and a part of me longed to test him by making it true. But where would I go? Butch wouldn't take me to Lander, let alone San Antonio. Each night, wearied more by my thoughts than by hard work, I fell into a troubled sleep.

  * * *

  One day Butch rode into Kaycee for mail and supplies and was home in a hurry. "Come on, Etta," he called as he ground-tied his horse and rushed into the cabin. "Wanna go campin' for a day or two?"

  "Camping?" I shook my floury hands and wiped them on my apron. "Sure, I'm ready." My energy exhausted with cleaning, being around the cabin was now beginning to bore me.

  We were ahorseback and on the trail in ten minutes. Butch even complimented me on my speed.

  "Where are we going?" I asked, still breathless from hurrying but glad to find myself going somewhere, anywhere, rather than sitting at home waiting for Sundance.

  "Got to help a friend in Rock Springs," Butch said. "I heard about it when I was in Kaycee."

  We rode long and hard, though Butch let us stop part of the two nights we were on the road. "We're in a hurry," he said, "but not that much." Still we rode after dark, under a sky so cloudy that no moon guided us. Butch rode carefully yet surely. He held back branches for me, led my horse carefully across streams, and asked constantly if I was all right.

  "Butch," I finally said, "why did you bring me? You'd make better time without me."

  "If Sundance had been there," he said slowly, "I'd have come alone. But you can help me. You'll see." And there was no further explanation, until we rode near Rock Springs. With Butch in the lead, we stopped at a small frame house, badly in need of paint, some four miles east of the town. The ground around the house was barren, but so was most everything else in that area. Still, this had a deserted look, as though no one cared—no vegetable garden, no chickens, none of the signs of a household.

  Butch read my thoughts. "She cares," he said, "but she's old and poor and can't take care of it. Sometime I'm gonna come back here and paint it."

  "She" turned out to be Mrs. Lavinia Black, former schoolteacher and postmistress, and longtime Wyoming resident. A tiny woman, she peered at us through thick spectacles, having opened the chained door only a crack.

  "Who you be?" she asked, her voice rising in suspicion.

  "It's Butch Cassidy, Mrs. Black."

  The chain rattled and the door swung open. "Butch Cassidy, I ain't seen you since... since you were a butcher!"

  He laughed aloud. "It's been a right long spell," he agreed.

  We were led into a threadbare parlor—the carpet was worn, the furniture sagged, and the room smelled musty. Involuntarily, I put a hand over my nose, but then I saw Butch frown at me. He made the introductions, and we were offered tea—Butch, who had never drunk tea as far as I knew, signaled me to accept, and we drank our tea out of fine English china cups, albeit slightly chipped.

  "Mrs. Black, I hear you're having some trouble with that banker...." Butch let his voice drift away.

  That querulous old voice suddenly gained the strength of anger. "Trouble!" she hooted. "Gonna take my house, over a hundred dollar mortgage payment. I keep tellin' him my son'll send the money, soon as he's able. But that Cockrell down to the bank... the man has no soul."

  Butch laughed aloud. "No, ma'am, he surely doesn't. Well, I'm gonna help you with this, but I'll leave Etta with you till I get back."

  Mrs. Black smiled and reached for my hand. "We'll have a fine visit, won't we, miss? Now, where did Butch find you? Not in Lander, I know..." And she was off rambling.

  It was almost twenty-four hours before Butch returned. In that spell, I'd managed to give the house a good airing—I don't think the woman ever opened her doors and windows, but I convinced her it was safe—and I'd washed the linens, cleaned the kitchen as thoroughly as I knew how, and tried to beat the dust out of curtains and rugs. Mrs. Black kept following me around the house, protesting, "Now, dearie, you don't need to do that." But when I cooked her good potato soup—her supplies were limited—she seemed really grateful.

  When Butch arrived, he sent me to fetch the banker. "Can't quite go myself," he said. So I went to the Wyoming State Bank of Rock Springs and asked for Mr. Cockrell. He turned out to be fiftyish, balding with a huge walrus moustache, large ears, and a self-righteous air. His hands were pudgy, with too many gold rings.

  "Mrs. Black?" he said pompously. "I doubt there's any arrangement to be made. We'll simply have to foreclose on the house."

  "She asked that you come see her," I said, swallowing my dislike of the man.

  "I'll be there directly," he said. "I have a lot of things to take care of here."

  "The son of a..." Butch muttered when I reported this. Between us, we took turns watching out the front window.

  At length, almost at sundown, Mr. Cockrell came driving a single-horse carriage down the dirt road to the house. Even from a distance, I could see that he flicked the whip impatiently over the horse's shoulders. When he alighted from the carriage in front of the gate, he dusted his hands on his jacket and took care to straighten his string tie.

  "I'm gone," Butch said. "You be sure he accepts the money and gives her a receipt."

  The transaction was brief and none too cordial. I thought Mrs. Black would spit at the banker, and he remained every bit as supercilious as he had in the bank, though it was plain that he was surprised by her ability to pay. Sputtering, he made out a receipt and handed it to her, only to be rewarded with a "Thank ye, and now get out of my house!"

  I hid my smile behind a hand, but when I walked him to the door I didn't offer to shake his hand nor did I bid him goodbye. He left silently.

  Mrs. Black and I had settled down for the night when Butch returned, knocking ever so gently at the door and, once admitted, saying, "Let's go, Etta. We got to get away from here."

  We shared hugs with Mrs. Black and then, almost before I knew it, we were on the road again.

  "Butch Cassidy," I demanded, "you tell me what's going on, why we're leaving in the middle of the night like thieves."

  "We are thieves," he said with a loud laugh. "At least I am. I had to go steal that hundred dollars for Mrs. Black—don't you ask where—but then, after she paid the banker, I waited for him on the road and robbed him. I got five hundred dollars back! See, Etta, we done a good deed and made a profit to boot. Can't tell me the Lord doesn't smile on outlaws!"

  I was still laughing a mile later, the picture of that pompous banker rising before my eyes.

  Chapter 21

  Sundance was only gone the three weeks he'd predicted. Unlike the times we'd waited for Butch, when he was gone overlong and I was convinced he was dead or jailed, Sundance gave no cause for worry. If he was surprised—or pleased—to find me at the cabin, he gave no sign.

  Both Butch and I watched silently as he came in, and not a one of the three of us said hello or anything by way of greeting.

  Sundance stared at me a minute, then transferred his look to Butch. "Here!" He flung a roll of bills o
n the table.

  "What's that?" Butch asked.

  "My share of the loot."

  "Loot?" I echoed. "You robbed a bank?" The idea that he would take that risk without planning, without consulting Butch, appalled me.

  Apparently the thought never occurred to Sundance. But he was scornful when he said, "Not a bank. There's not but a thousand dollars there. We robbed a saloon... a damn saloon."

  "Ain't that kind of like biting the hand that feeds you?" Butch asked.

  I turned back to the stew I was stirring.

  "That's not the half of it," Sundance said wryly. "We spent that much setting ourselves up as ranchers, men looking to invest. You know, sat in the saloon—Club Saloon, they called it—and bought folks drinks, had to have new clothes so we looked good. Bought a new suit and all."

  I couldn't keep quiet. "I thought you just went for fun."

  He stared at me so long without speaking that I had to force myself to keep from flinching. Finally, slowly, he said, "If I'd gone for fun, I'd have stayed with you."

  "But you said... you said you'd never seen Elko."

  "We'll talk about it later," he said firmly, his eyes ever so briefly darting toward Butch, who sat with his head down, absently whittling on a piece of stick he held.

  "Should have robbed the bank," Sundance said.

  "Probably so," Butch replied. "Why didn't you?"

  "Curry. He got the lame-brained idea that the saloon had more money. Probably a hundred thousand sitting in that bank. Just our luck."

  "Curry's luck," I muttered, wondering once again when the two of them would learn to stay away from Curry.

  By the time we sat to supper, Sundance had us all laughing, but there was a hollowness to it.

  A nervous Butch took himself off to his tent as quickly after supper as he could, but I piddled in the kitchen, drawing out my work, postponing the moment we would be in our tent. But then I could put it off no longer. Without a word, I headed out the door, and Sundance followed me.

  He stood just inside the tent flap, hands shoved into his pockets. "I thought you'd be gone," he said.

  "I thought about it." I stood before the tiny mirror he'd tacked up for me and brushed my hair hard. Then, turning to face him, I said, "But I'm not." No need to tell him part of the reason I was still there was that I didn't know where else to go; another part was Butch. Better to let Sundance think I'd stayed for him—and in a big way, I had. Whatever was between Sundance and me was far from finished, and I knew that.

  "Butch?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "Never. Not for either one of us." Then, wickedly, I added, "We like each other too much."

  Sundance saw the joke of it, and maybe that was what spurred him to admit, "I thought about it a lot, about you and Butch. Sometimes it ate me alive, and I was ready to fight him. Other times I'd tell myself he's the best friend I'll ever have."

  "He is," I said.

  We met in the middle of the tent, a slow, restrained reunion that soon found us in bed together. Afterward we lay in each other's arms without speaking for a long time.

  "I may have to marry you," he said at length.

  I sat bolt upright. "Marry me? Who asked you?"

  He chuckled. "Not you, I admit it, not you. But... well, maybe we should...."

  "Next thing," I said, "you'll be wanting an ivy-covered cottage and little blond boys who look just like you."

  "And dark-headed girls who look like you," he added.

  "You'll have to find another line of work," I threatened, but then my tone turned serious. "We're not that kind of people, Sundance. We've made other choices for ourselves. We can't suddenly decide to be common everyday good folks who go to church and raise their children right." I remembered my last conversation with Fannie.

  He stared off into space for several minutes before he said, "I suppose you're right. But sometimes I can't see our future."

  "I can see it," I said. "You'll be killed or put in jail for the rest of your life... but most probably, you'll be killed."

  "Thanks." He reached to hug me. "It's so good to have your confidence."

  "Butch talked again about going to South America."

  "He told you that? Butch swore we'd never take anyone else with us."

  "I'm not anyone," I said, "and yes, he told me. I don't think it'll happen. I don't think you'll live long enough."

  "Maybe," he said, sitting up to kiss me soundly, "I'll just have to prove you wrong."

  We slept, but sometime during the night, Sundance woke me by saying, "I told you I was going just to see Elko, because I didn't want you to know I was going to rob a bank. I figured you'd get upset."

  "You went without me," I said, only slight accusation creeping into my sleepy voice. "Don't do it again."

  "We'll see, we'll see."

  I never did tell Sundance—or anyone else—but when he made love to me that night, I knew that he had been with another woman. I couldn't have told you how I knew, and at the moment I didn't know what I wanted to do about it. But I filed that knowledge away in my mind, storing it with other bits and pieces.

  * * *

  The next time they rode as outlaws I went with them, though it caused some trouble among everyone but Butch and Sundance.

  Kid Curry muttered and cursed under his breath when Sundance told him, as casually as he could, "Etta's going to help us again." Curry had not been along at Montpelier or Belle Fourche, but he knew that I'd ridden with them when he hadn't. Now he glared balefully at me, and I knew he was thinking of our first encounter when I'd slapped him in the face. I didn't intend to let him forget, and I returned looks as hard as those I got.

  "Guess I'll go back and fetch Annie," he muttered.

  "Annie?" I asked curiously.

  "Yeah," he said, his tone belligerent, "Annie from San Antonio. She's been following me around 'bout a year now. Can't get shed of her."

  I looked at him as coldly as I could. "Have you told her you want to?"

  He turned his back on me, and Butch muttered, "He probably likes the convenience."

  They sat around the table at Hole-in-the-Wall, their eternal maps spread out before them. With the three of them were Maxwell, whom I'd never met, and Kilpatrick, the Tall Texan whom I liked a lot as long as he didn't have Delia with him. I never did learn Maxwell's first name, and he never spoke directly to me, even avoided looking at me when he could.

  "Etta?" Butch looked directly at me. "This is different. It's a train, not a bank." His voice held that question: Was I sure I wanted to take the risk again?

  I nodded my head to tell him yes, I wanted to go, and he grinned slightly. "All right, now," he said, turning businesslike, "this is what we'll do. There's a steep grade between the Rock Creek Station and Wilcox. We'll set flares here"—a stubby finger pointed out a spot on the map—"to indicate trouble on the track. Train'll make an unscheduled stop about here, just across this trestle bridge—there's a good-sized gully there." The finger moved ever so slightly. "We three"—his nod took in Maxwell and the Tall Texan—"will step out of the woods and get the crew off."

  "Just where am I going to be?" Sundance asked forcefully.

  Butch's answer was careful. "About three hundred yards into the woods... with Etta."

  "But..." His protest died in his throat when Butch gave him a dark look. Butch had that kind of control over Sundance, just as he did over Curry and the others, but he exercised it rarely on Sundance, and it always surprised me to see it.

  "There'll be a second section comin' along just behind this one," Butch went on, "and we'll have to blow the bridge over the gully quick."

  "Blow?" I asked. Nothing had ever been blown up in the banks, and the idea made me nervous.

  "Blow," Butch repeated. "We'll have dynamite with us. Then we'll have leisure"—he grinned at his use of the word—"to rob the front section."

  "What if they won't open the mail car?" Kilpatrick asked.

  "We'll tell them we'll blow the train up with dynamit
e," Butch answered calmly, as if there was no other possible answer.

  "Would you?" I asked softly.

  "Yes," Butch said.

  I couldn't see that any of them looked particularly disturbed by all this dynamite, but in the same way I could not believe that Butch Cassidy would blow up a train full of innocent people. And I guess a part of me pictured each of them, blown to bits, by a charge that went off at the wrong time.

  Butch went on, as though my question hadn't been asked. "But we don't want the mail car. Small potatoes, not worth the trouble. We want the express car. I specifically heard that there'll be a major shipment on June 2—$50,000 or more. That's what we want."

  Sundance let out a low whistle. "I guess we do!"

  Butch ignored him. "We'll have five horses in the woods. Etta and Sundance will keep them quiet, and we'll leave the train on foot, walk into the woods. It'll take them some time to get word to Wilcox and organize a posse. We should be long gone."

  The meeting went on for another two hours, with endless—so it seemed to me—discussions of escape routes, hideouts, and the like. I tired of it and went to bed, long before the gentlemen retired to their tents. Maybe that was a sign that I wasn't a dedicated outlaw. Sundance would later suggest that.

  Sundance woke me when he came in, not in his gentle way with love, but with a harsh comment. "Butch thinks I'm going to babysit you," he said angrily.

  It took me a minute to come from sleep, but when the sense of what he was saying dawned on me, I murmured, "You've never had to take care of me before. Why should you start now?"

  "I've always taken care of you!" he said indignantly, his voice rising.

  Rising, I reached out for him. "Not at Belle Fourche," I said, "or at Montpelier, where you left me alone in the woods all day." And then, defiantly, I added, "And there's no reason for you to start now."

  He looked a little shamefaced about his outburst. "I... Butch... he thinks I have to stay in the woods with you."

  "It will take two people to hold the horses," I said. "Maybe it's your turn."

  "But why not... why not Kilpatrick or Maxwell? I wouldn't want you to stay in the woods with Curry, but..."