Sundance, Butch and Me

by Judy Alter

  "It's a long ride," Sundance said, reading my mind.

  "How do you know this place?"'

  "It was Butch's home country once upon a time," he answered, and I thought it strange that we were here and Butch was on his way to sea.

  I looked south this time and saw canyons and ridges cut back into grassy flats.

  "That's where we're going," Sundance said.

  We actually camped on somebody's land, in those grassy flats that turned out to be mostly bunch grass and hard grazing for the horses. All around us those brilliant colored cliffs rose steep and sharp, and I truly believed that no one could ever find us, let alone get to us.

  I never met the rancher who owned the land we were on. Sundance called him Rimrock, and I sensed that they were acquaintances. He raised horses, and a good-sized herd watered at a nearby hole that Sundance referred to as Crow Seep. Sundance and I would watch them sometimes when they approached the water. Filled, they would look for soft spots to roll in and try to find bunches of grass to graze. They were wild, though, and the least sound spooked them. We had to keep our horses tied, for they much wanted to run off and join the herd.

  "Instinct," he said. "Every animal wants to be in the midst of a large number of its own kind."

  We spent our days wandering, mostly on foot, and doing lots of target shooting. "If you plan to ride with us more," Sundance said, "you've got to practice shooting. You were pretty good at Hole-in-the-Wall, but by now you'll be rusty."

  He was right about my being rusty. He was also a relentless teacher, and I shot a rifle until my shoulder ached, my eyes blurred, and I swore at him. But I kept practicing, and within a couple of weeks my aim was acceptable to Sundance.

  "It'll get better," he said, "and you'd be fine if whoever you're shooting at will stand still and wait until you get it aimed just right."

  So we worked on fast shooting—with the rifle, with the shotgun, and with a small handgun he'd bought for me.

  Nights we spent loving and exploring each other, physically and mentally. In almost three years together, we had never had such a long period alone, especially when we were not tensely waiting for Butch to return or some other event to move our lives forward. And we had never been without Butch this long. In that lazy summer, I almost convinced myself that I loved Sundance, not Butch.

  But there was a part of me that was not at ease. I wasn't sure—it wasn't fear of the law, for I felt quite sure that no one would find us in the Roost. No, it was something else.

  "You miss Butch?" he asked one afternoon as we dangled our feet in Poison Creek and watched a hawk circling above something that was evidently darting across the flats.

  I thought about my answer for a minute and realized that was the part of me that was missing. Slowly, I said, "Of course I miss him. He's a part of us. But you were right about breathing space. It's good for us to be apart from the others—for us to be just... well, alone."

  "Yeah," he said, "that's what Butch told me."

  His words went through me like a knife, though I knew he didn't mean that. But his comment told me, clearly, that Butch, not Sundance, had known that we needed time alone. I had thought we would never be closer than we were right that minute—and suddenly there was a gulf between us, another chasm that would have to be crossed. Sundance never realized it.

  I crossed that chasm, as I had several others, without ever letting Sundance know what was going through my mind. He loved me, I reasoned, to the best of his ability, but he was a man used to the company of other men. And I was a woman in love with two men.

  Sundance began to wonder about Butch, about Pinkerton, about news of the world—and of other outlaws. He rode to the Biddlecombes—that was the mysterious Rimrock's last name—twice a week now, and finally one day reported that he was going to ride to the small town of Hanksville for supplies and news.

  "You want to come with me?" He fully expected me to leap at the chance.

  I shook my head, unwilling to let the outside into my small, private world.

  "I'll be gone overnight," he warned, sure now that I would change my mind.

  I shook my head again. "I'll be fine."

  "I'll tell Biddlecombe you're here alone," he said as he left.

  I stood and watched him ride away, saw him turn once to wave, and wondered when I would last watch him ride away, knowing I'd never see him again. "Not this time," I told myself sharply, straightening a little as though that way I could get a grip on myself. I had brought one book with me—Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn—and I spent the next twenty-four hours reading, washing clothes, and cleaning our campsite. Huckleberry Finn made me thoughtful: Where did one draw the line between Huck Finn and the Sundance Kid? How did one go from being a wild and rebellious youngster to being an outlaw? I was no closer to an answer when Sundance rode in late the next day, hollering "Hallo the camp!"

  "You don't need to do that," I said, and laughed. "Nobody but you would come riding in here."

  "Don't know about that," he said seriously. "That Siringo's been pretty busy." He dismounted and began pulling things out of his saddlebags—canned peaches and tomatoes, a bit of tobacco, a bottle of whiskey, some coffee.

  "Oh?" I asked.

  "Tell you later," he said, but I could see from his face that the news he'd heard in Hanksville had not been good. Later turned out to be the middle of the night when we lay comfortably in each other's arms, though neither of us was ready to sleep.

  "They caught Elzy," he said suddenly, out of nowhere. We'd been talking of South America and the ranch we'd own there, and had, for a moment, put the present away from us. With his statement, it came crashing back.

  I drew my breath in sharply. "Elzy?" I repeated, remembering his devotion to that proper Mormon wife I never met and the big gentle smile that always came over Elzy's face when he talked about his wife and daughter.

  "Yeah, he and Ketcham robbed a train in New Mexico-—at Folsom—and they both got shot. Got away at the time, but Ketcham died of blood poisoning, and Elzy got caught... last month, August."

  I was silent. There didn't seem to be anything to say.

  "This Siringo fellow chased Curry's all over Arkansas, but I heard he's back in Wyoming now and Curry's still on the run someplace, maybe even Nashville."

  Nashville surprised me. I couldn't imagine any of the Wild Bunch leaving the West. But I guess they did. After all, Butch went to California, didn't he? "Was Annie with him?" I asked.

  Sundance's lifted shoulders indicated he didn't know and didn't care. "She knew what she was getting into," he said callously, and I wondered if he realized that others—Curry, even Butch—could with some justification be equally callous about me.

  He was off in a different direction. "Some damn fool—got to be Maxwell or Kilpatrick—is spreading banknotes from Wilcox all over in Wyoming. That's why the Pinkerton guy is back up there." He sat up, moving so suddenly that I was almost tossed aside. "And no-good amateurs, people Butch wouldn't have a thing to do with, are robbing banks in his name. There's been two bank robberies since Butch went to Seattle, and they're both blamed on him." His anger was almost tangible.

  "They're not leavin' us a damn choice," Sundance said angrily. "We'll have to go either to South America or to prison for the rest of our lives. And I, for one, would rather get shot in a shoot-out."

  I bit my lip and turned away. It was obvious he really meant what he said, and for a fleeting moment—as though I were prescient—I saw a blazing gun battle in my mind.

  Things did not look better in the morning, and we went silently about the business of cooking breakfast and making our camp as ready for the day as we ever did. Then Sundance suggested we ride, so we rode for several hours, without speaking a word.

  Finally, with a wry look at me, he said, "Guess I'm sorry I went into town."

  "So am I," I answered. "Who... how did you learn all that in Hanksville?"

  "Outlaw communication again," he said. "General store kind of acts like a pos
t office for information."

  "Did they know who you are?"

  He nodded. "Chance you always take. I guess I won't go again."

  And he didn't, never again, the long months we stayed in the Roost.

  * * *

  We went to San Antonio for Christmas. Oh, Butch had said January, and Sundance repeated that to me. He actually said, "Butch said January."

  "But," I protested, "he didn't say we couldn't go there sooner. That's just when he said he'd be there. Christmas would be a lot more... well, fun... at Fannie's than here in this lonely camp." The minute I said it I could've bitten my tongue.

  "You're lonely?" he asked, and I could see the hurt on his face.

  I fought for the right words. "No, I'm never lonely with you—but we'd have no Christmas tree, no big dinner, none of the things that make a holiday."

  "Did you have them when you were little?" he asked.

  I shook my head, and he put his arms around me. "We'll go in the middle of December," he said.

  We sent Fannie a wire from Durango and took the train.

  "Where'd we get the money for the train?" I asked pointedly. "I thought we didn't have any we could spend."

  "I saved some back," he said, and then with a grin admitted, "Butch gave me some that wasn't from Wilcox. Still don't want to be spending that. Look how they followed poor Curry to Arkansas."

  It made me glance nervously at other men in the car, but none looked like a Pinkerton agent. Then I laughed at myself: What did a Pinkerton agent look like? And, I wondered soberly, what was to stop Siringo from following us to San Antonio and Fannie's?

  Fannie was as happy to see us as I ever saw her, closing the house on a weekend night for a celebration. "Not every day Etta comes home," she said by way of explanation to a houseful of girls I'd never met. I'd been gone two years exactly—it had been Christmas 1897 when we were last there—and the turnover was complete. Maud Walker was gone, I never knew where, and Annie was following Curry around. I would tell Fannie about that later. Meanwhile, it struck me that it was pleasant to be back at Fannie's without Curry.

  Hodge looked just a trifle older to me—maybe the hair was more gray, or the walk a bit slower. But he was nonetheless courtly as always. "Miss Etta, it's surely good to see you. Julie, she be cookin' up your favorite dishes."

  "Chicken salad?" Sundance asked with a grin.

  "Might be, Mr. Sundance, it just might be."

  Dinner actually was leg of lamb with potatoes, peas and carrots, Julie's wonderful fresh bread, and a rich chocolate pudding for dessert. I ate like I'd never eaten before.

  "You been feedin' this girl, Sundance?" Fannie asked, raising her eyebrows in amusement.

  Fannie, Sundance, and I sat at a table covered with white linen. The glasses were fine crystal, the china imported Wedgwood, the flatware ornate sterling. The "girls" had eaten earlier and been sent, somewhat resentfully, to their rooms or to the parlor, the point being clearly made that this was a private party.

  Sundance took it good-naturedly. "I tried, but I think she was getting tired of cooking over a campfire. She kept mentioning the Brown's Palace in Denver, and finally she threatened me that if we didn't come here for Christmas..." His voice trailed off.

  "Just what was the threat?" Fannie persisted.

  Sundance looked awkwardly at me, and I favored him with an expectant look. After all, he was the one who'd invented the threat, and now I was curious to hear what it was. The expected, of course, was that I wouldn't sleep with him unless and until he brought me to Fannie's, but Sundance well knew that I'd never make that threat—and he also knew that he was about to be in deep trouble if he even hinted at that.

  "Well," he chuckled to lighten the tension, "she threatened to keep on doing all the cooking. What could I do?"

  Fannie laughed heartily, saying, "I never claimed to have taught her to cook," and the moment passed.

  * * *

  Fannie and I didn't have a long, private visit until two days later, in the evening, when the parlor was full of noise and music and people, with Sundance in the midst of them, singing away, his arms about this girl and that. Fannie entered the room quietly and, with a tug on my sleeve, pulled me out of the room. Sundance never noticed.

  "That bother you?" she asked as we settled in her private room. She hiked herself up onto the big bed, where she could sit propped against a thousand cushions, and I lay on the chaise, languorous from wine and a good dinner.

  "No," I said truthfully. "He'll not look seriously at anyone else in this house."

  "In this house?" she echoed, her voice a question.

  I just looked at her. I wasn't about to tell her about Elko and his cheating, for Fannie would be quick to say, "I told you so."

  She studied me for a long while without speaking, and I almost began to squirm under her scrutiny. Then, at last, she spoke. "The outlaw life still agrees with you. I'd have thought you'd have tired of it by now. Matter of fact, ever since I heard about Wilcox, I've been expecting you back."

  "That was probably the worst of it," I said, "riding to get away from all those posses. But it's behind us... and Butch and Sundance, they're talking about quitting."

  "Quitting! Man in that business can't ever quit. He either dies or goes to prison."

  "Or to South America," I said.

  Her eyes opened wide. "Would you go?"

  I nodded yes.

  She sat up straight, abandoning all those pillows so that she could look more directly at me. "Why? I really want to know. I... I know what drew Annie into that life—desperation and no other future. But you... you're educated, you could do a thousand things, and coming to work in this house is not one of them. But why do you follow him?"

  It wasn't an easy question to answer, but Fannie waited patiently while I collected my thoughts. "Because I simply can't imagine life without Sundance... and Butch."

  "Butch?" she asked archly.

  "He's the best friend I've got, in a way that Sundance can't be, just because of the electricity between us. I won't say he's like a brother, because that's not quite true. I love him, but it's far, far different... and it's a mutual thing."

  She seemed to think about that awhile. Then, "They could both be gone any day," she said tartly.

  "I know that, and I... well, a tiny part of me is steeled to accept that if it happens. But I would never willingly give up what we have. And there's more than that... there's the excitement, of course. Maybe I thrive on the tension, even on the hard times. But there's that feeling of being outside the law—even if I were to go somewhere that no one knew me and become a respectable schoolteacher, I would always know that I was different, that I wasn't innocent like the children I was teaching. And I'd never be able to... well, to put my full weight down. With Sundance—and with Butch—I don't have to worry about acceptance or pretend to be something I'm not."

  The talk went on to lighter things—the new girls she had, and how they just weren't like those of the old days. They wanted days off and this special privilege and that, and most saw Fannie's house as a step on the ladder, not a refuge from a worse life, as I had. Then there were Hodge and Julie—yes, Hodge was getting older, but Julie's cooking was as good as ever.

  "I imagine," she chuckled, "Hodge'll still be answering that door when he's ninety-five years old, deaf, blind, and addlepated. How could I ever let him go?"

  Christmas came and went with Fannie's usual extravagant celebration, though this year I never felt it got off the ground. Somehow we were all solemn, in spite of José banging out "Silent Night, Holy Night" on the piano and Julie providing the best roast turkey I'd ever eaten in my life. Maybe it was because I'd been eating all that cold camp food in the Roost, but I relished every bite of that meal and told Julie so for three days afterward, until she finally said, "Hush, Miss Etta. You go on too much." I hushed.

  Sundance was the one person who seemed to enjoy Christmas extraordinarily. There was a young whore—what else should I call her?—na
med Elise, or so she said, who hung on his every movement, stood next to him when he sang carols, laughed extravagantly when he had too much to drink and nearly set the tree on fire trying to light the candles. Sundance was by no means oblivious to her admiration... and I doubted he was immune to her lust. He cocked his head in her direction, watched to see if she was looking at him, smiled at her from beneath slightly lowered eyes—all the signs of a man flirting with a new woman.

  I said nothing for days, waiting until Christmas was over. But I knew that Fannie was watching me. It wasn't a case where Fannie would rush in to discipline one of her girls, because the problem wasn't really with the girl. Sundance could have cut her off cold, and it would have been over. The problem was with Sundance—and I was the one who had to fix it.

  * * *

  The third night after New Year's Eve the parlor was unusually full of loud men and louder women, and I left early to go to bed. Sundance was in the midst of a gaggle of people, but Elise was never far from his elbow. With one look of disgust, which he never noticed, I went to our bedroom, where I propped myself up in bed and wondered what in heaven's name I would do if he went upstairs with Elise. Then I'd scold myself for being silly: Sundance would never do that. Not in Fannie's house. Just as quickly, the other side of my mind would take over, and I'd demand to know why I thought he'd never do that.

  While I was in that turmoil, Fannie knocked and stuck her head in the door. "You still awake?"

  "Couldn't sleep," I answered.

  "I don't wonder," she said. "I couldn't either if I were you. What're you going to do about it?"

  There was no use pretending I didn't know what she was talking about. "I don't know," I said. "I haven't the slightest idea. If that's what he wants—"

  "It's not what he wants," she said fiercely, "but he doesn't need you to tell him that. He doesn't need you to treat him like a misbehaving child."