Sundance, Butch and Me

by Judy Alter

  Butch spoke in that same level tone. "We aren't botherin' passengers. Never have, and there's no reason to start now. Mount up, Curry, 'fore I throw you in that saddle."

  Curry started to challenge him, saw Sundance raise his rifle, and suddenly decided to mount his horse.

  It would not have been practical, of course, to backtrack a mile and rifle the passengers' purses. That would have delayed us long enough for the slowest posse in Wyoming to catch us still at the robbery site. But that wasn't why Butch and Sundance didn't rob the passengers, and I knew it. Curry would never understand.

  * * *

  We rode nearly a hundred miles in twenty-four hours, stopping only briefly to change horses and tend to nature's needs at the two locations where we'd left the fresh strings. For sustenance, we had jerky and dried biscuits—I'd cooked an extra batch our last night in camp. For rest, we had nothing but the pounding of the horses' hooves.

  "Etta?" Sundance rode next to me.

  "I'm fine," I said through clenched teeth. The rush of the robbery was long gone, and fatigue made me remember why I'd thought of staying in San Antonio, why I'd sworn I'd never go on another robbery.

  "You were great," Sundance said. "Steady. I watched your aim. It was perfect all the time."

  I didn't tell him I'd felt my hands waver when it looked like we might never get Woodcock out of that baggage car.

  We rode... and rode... and rode, through a moon-bright night and then a dusty, dry hot day. Around midnight the next night, Butch called a halt, and we camped way back in a canyon where there was a fresh spring. No food, no game, but fresh water, and that was a blessing.

  "Next town we come to," Sundance muttered, "I'm going to rob the general store. Get some canned tomatoes, sardines, something to keep a man's soul together."

  Butch looked up from the saddlebags where he was counting the loot. "Why don't you just pay cash?" he asked. "We took over $50,000."

  Sundance whistled, and even Curry's eyes widened in surprise.

  The next day, Sundance rode casually into a small town, made his purchases—paying legitimate cash—and rode back with the news that the Union Pacific was spreading the word that only $54 had been taken in the latest robbery by the Wild Bunch.

  "Damn them," Butch said vehemently. "Can't they ever play fair? Makin' us out like bumbling idiots to have gone to all that trouble for pocket change. Don't want the world to know we made a haul." As frustrated as I'd ever seen him, he picked up a good-sized rock and hurled it as far and as high as he could. It clattered and banged down the rocky side of the canyon, while the rest of us sat in stunned silence at the display of anger from Butch.

  "There's good news," Sundance said softly. "Word is that there were four men involved"—-he threw me a smile at that—"and that the posse totally lost track of them."

  Butch shrugged his shoulders, as though that were unimportant compared to the lie about the amount of cash taken.

  We slept around the embers of a campfire that night, even though it was a summer night. Canyons in that country could come up with a chill like winter, and I slept close to Sundance, my body pressed against his for warmth. Sometime in the night, though, I got up to relieve myself, going as quietly as I could toward some small bushes that afforded a little privacy.

  My business concluded, I rose to return to the fire. Before I could move, a hand was clamped over my mouth and a voice muttered, "You best not make one move, say one thing."

  The terror of Pa's attack came back, all those years later. The horror of helplessness, the hand that made me swallow a scream that rose in my throat and the bile that followed it, the rough hands pushing at my clothes.

  "You and me have a score to settle," Curry muttered, dragging me away from the fire, even as he pulled at the pants I still wore.

  Calm, I told myself, be calm. Breathing around that foul-smelling hand, I inhaled deeply. Then, slowly, so as not to alarm him, I reached for my waistband. The knife was hidden, nestled inside my shirt, lying on top of my belt. I went limp, making myself harder to drag, while I eased the knife out of tike sheath.

  "I'm gonna show Sundance he ain't nothin' special," he said, "and teach you not to be messin' in men's business. Think you're high and mighty, just 'cause they protect you..." He was beginning to ramble, as though anger and maybe revenge had supplanted reason.

  All, I thought, to my advantage.

  With one powerful gesture, he threw me on the ground, and I landed so hard that for a split second I feared the wind had been knocked out of me and that I wouldn't be able to move quickly enough to defend myself. But by the time he fell on top of me, I had my senses back.

  When he reared back to gloat in my face, taunting, "And how do you like this now, Miss Etta Place?" I raised my hand slowly and brought the knife to bear on his shoulder. Lord help me, I never wanted to kill another man, and this time I knew enough to aim for a spot that would hurt but not kill. I sliced the skin away from his shoulder and down his back, taking with it shreds of the dirty shirt he wore.

  He yowled like a hurt bear but, to my surprise and terror, neither budged from me nor loosened his grip. Instead, he struggled to reach the knife. My hand was still free, and I pitched the knife far enough that he would have had to let go of me to get it.

  "I ought to kill you, you bitch," he roared, curving one hand around my throat. The other hand was disabled by my knife. Desperately I fought to loosen his fingers, but he was stronger than me, and for a second I had the real sinking sensation that I was about to die. I remember telling myself that Butch and Sundance wouldn't let me die, not when we were about to go to South America, not when we had $50,000, not when... not ever.

  Curry's grip loosened suddenly and he fell away from me. Only later did I realize that Butch had clubbed him in the head with his rifle butt and Sundance stood behind, his rifle aimed clearly at Curry's head.

  "Etta?" Sundance asked in a brittle, hard voice.

  "I'm all right," I said, pushing myself to a sitting position. "You better check him. He's got a nasty knife wound. Might bleed to death."

  "Let him," said Sundance. "We all warned him."

  Curry was sitting up now, shaking his head as though to clear it. Angrily he looked at the two men standing over him, then at me.

  "She's won," Butch said quietly, "and you won't ever bother her again. I told you before I'd kill you if you tried, but somehow I can't bring myself to do that. You're gonna ride out of here now, and you're not doubling back or any of that. If there's anything you know, Kid Curry, it's that I'm a good tracker and that I mean what I say. You come back anywhere near us, and I will kill you. I never killed a man before, but I will sure enough kill you."

  Briefly I hated Butch for not killing him. Why, I thought, can't he bring himself to do it? And then I remembered that I couldn't bring myself to that terrible act again.

  Curry rose on weak legs. "My share?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

  "I'll count it out while Sundance covers you," Butch replied.

  Sundance kept the rifle pointed at Curry, but he said, "He doesn't deserve it, Butch, if we kept his share..."

  "I ain't doin' that to anyone," Butch said. "No matter what filth he is, I won't have it said Butch Cassidy cheated a man he'd ridden with."

  Butch even wrapped Curry's wounded shoulder, and then a sullen, angry, and injured outlaw rode away from the camp, never looking back.

  "I never thought," Butch said, his voice full of amazement, "that a man I trusted would do that." He shook his head, as though trying desperately to understand. Then he stood up. "I'll stand watch. You two get some sleep."

  "I'll stand watch," Sundance said.

  "Naw," Butch said, "I'm too angry to sleep. You go on."

  And so I lay in Sundance's arms, safe but shaken. He stroked my hair and whispered, "You're one tough lady, Etta Place. You can rob a train and fight off a crazy outlaw. How did I ever meet you?"

  "You stole me when I was an innocent schoolgirl." I fell asleep.<
br />
  Winnemucca was my idea. That is, robbing the bank there was my idea.

  From the barrenness of southwestern Wyoming, we rode into northern Utah, a surprisingly fertile land of cattle and farms—sugar beets and peas. "Beaver hunters first came here," Butch said, as though he were lecturing in history at a university. "Stashed their goods in caches, great caverns they dug in the earth and lined with leaves and stuff."

  "Fascinating," Sundance said grimly.

  As we went west, skirting the north end of the Great Salt Lake, the land grew more grim. Salt flats indicated where the lake had once risen, then fallen back, leaving land that would grow nothing.

  "Want to float in it?" Butch asked me. "You won't sink. Salt holds you up."

  "No, thanks," I said, looking at the gray-green water. Overhead, gulls whirled in the air and dive-bombed anything that looked like food. Fortunately they stayed a distance from us.

  "At least taste it," Butch insisted. "Put your fingers in and see how salty it is."

  I did as I was told and was surprised at the strong salt taste. "It really is salty. You ever taste it, Sundance?"

  He shook his head but refused to dismount. "I'm exhausted, and you two are going on about some horrible-looking lake like it was one of the great wonders of the world." Exasperation colored his tone as he spoke.

  "It is a great wonder," Butch said. "First white men that found it thought it was the Pacific. They talked about evil spirits and a great water spout in the middle that could draw a man clear down into the bowels of the earth."

  "The bowels of the earth?" Sundance repeated incredulously.

  "It ain't my phrase," Butch said defensively. "I read that somewhere. Besides, this damn lake looks to me like it's got a direct connection to the bowels of the earth, whatever that means."

  Once past the lake, we were in the Great Salt Lake Desert, the salt flats, several feet deep, left by an ancient lake when it dried up. It was grim land, and we rode silently, bandannas across our faces to keep out the dust and hats pulled low to shade us from the sun. By day, we burned in the sun and wished for the coolness of Wyoming; by night, we wrapped ourselves in layers of blankets and cursed the desert night for its coldness. Thirst and a suffocating heat were our daytime companions, and Butch warned us constantly to drink from our canteens, lest we begin to see mirages.

  "I think I see trees..." Sundance spoke in a mystical, faraway voice.

  "Oh shut up," I said, and he did.

  Finally we came to the foothills of a mountain range, and we knew we were through the desert. As we moved westward into Nevada, the land grew more fertile once again. We crossed one chain of mountains and then moved into Ruby Valley, just east of the Ruby Mountain Range. The eastern slopes of the valley were covered with pinon and, higher up, yellow pine. Cottonwoods grew plentifully along the streams, and the western slopes were covered with rich grasses.

  "We could run some cattle here," Sundance said, his tone almost wistful.

  "Yeah," Butch said, "we could." And then, apropos of nothing, "The Overland Mail went through this valley."

  "They carry money?" Sundance asked. "Worth our while?"

  Butch gave him a dirty look.

  Occasionally we saw ranch houses, square substantial buildings set in the center of sturdy picket fences, trees planted all around to shelter the home from the wind. They were a bit of civilization obviously dropped in the midst of the valley, with mountains rising behind them.

  We rode west to the Shoshone Range, and there Butch had a friend, a rancher near the town of Battle Mountain.

  "Another friend?" I teased.

  He nodded solemnly, all laughter beat out of him by the hard ride. "He'll feed us."

  Mr. Hammett was surprised to see us, no doubt about that. "Cassidy?" he asked, amazement in his voice. "I been readin' 'bout you, but way over in Wyoming. How'd you get here?"

  "Hard ridin'," Butch answered grimly.

  "I guess so," his friend said. "Light yourselves."

  Sundance looked warily at Butch, but he followed his lead and dismounted, then came to help me off my horse. My legs were so stiff and rubbery that I nearly fell into him instead of standing next to him.

  "You need some food," Mr. Hammett said practically. Within minutes we were seated around a rough pine table in a bachelor's kitchen, while a cowboy fried sizzling steaks and potatoes and Mr. Hammett poured steaming coffee into tin mugs for us.

  "What you been hearin', Hammett?" Butch asked.

  "You stole $54 and killed a guard to do it," Hammett said tersely.

  "We never," Butch protested, "we never killed nobody. Robbin' trains and banks ain't worth murderin' over."

  Hammett looked at him appraisingly. "I knew as much. And the $54?"

  Butch looked evasive. "That ain't right either."

  With that, Hammett roared with laughter. "I didn't hardly think so," he finally said when he could speak again.

  Butch could barely eat his meal for fuming. "Killed somebody! We didn't even threaten 'em, not even that stubborn Woodcock. Makes me want to bash some heads together!"

  "And kill them?" Sundance asked with a grin, but Butch threw him a black look and he subsided.

  Well fed, we stumbled to a bunkhouse. Hammett said that it being summer most of his cowboys were sleeping out and we could have the bunkhouse. I was flat on a bed and asleep while Butch and Sundance were still talking about who would sleep where.

  Within a couple of days we were recovered—we'd slept, washed, and eaten plentifully. And yet neither Butch nor Sundance seemed in good spirits.

  "Seems to me for men who just got themselves a wad of money you're mighty grim," I said, somewhat put out at them.

  "You wouldn't understand," Sundance said, without even looking at me.

  Anger surged through me, but Butch put out a hand as though to silence whatever I was about to say. "It's all right, Etta. We're just... well, you know, the lives we've known are over. We can't go back, and yet..."

  "No more trains?" I asked, impertinence in my voice.

  "Just leave it be, Etta," Sundance said in irritation. "It's something between Butch and me."

  "I hardly think so," I said. "I've been with you long enough that I think I'm part of it too."

  Butch nodded as though to agree, and Sundance simply shrugged his shoulders.

  "What you two need," I said, speaking slowly and carefully, "is something to rob."

  Heads whirled toward me in amazement. "We... we quit that with Tipton," Butch said. "Not gonna take the chance anymore. Besides, the Union Pacific probably has sawdust in their safes by now. Damn them and their $54-story!"

  "Can't do it," Sundance said. "We got no backup. Just the two of us, we can't rob a train."

  "I don't mean a train," I said. "And there are three of us. Don't forget that, Sundance. I think there's something kind of perfect about it just being the three of us. I think we should rob another bank."

  Sundance looked up at me, the first small sign of interest showing in his face. "What bank?"

  I shrugged. "You'll have to tell me that. I don't even know where we are."

  Next thing I knew, they were poring over one of Butch's wrinkled and stained maps. "Elko's too far," Butch said, "and Dunphy... it don't look big enough."

  "Winnemucca?" Sundance asked, pointing at a spot on the map.

  "Yeah," Butch said, "Winnemucca. Good-sized town, big enough to have some money in the bank but not big enough to have more than one sheriff." He was silent for a minute, looking off in the distance, and I could only guess what he saw.

  Then, "Let's make some plans. We'll ride in about noon, like we always do...."

  "Wait a minute," I said. "The Wild Bunch always robs banks at noon. It's like the banks expect them. Let's do it different this time."

  Butch looked at me suspiciously, in part, I'm sure, because I was questioning his leadership—something Sundance never did—but also because he was curious.

  "Nobody expects us this far f
rom Wyoming," I said. "Let's just ride into town and hang around for a couple of days. See what the pattern is at the bank, what's going on."

  "Etta," Sundance said, smiling only slightly, "this is the sort of thing men usually decide."

  Before I could voice the sarcastic remark that rose to my tongue, Butch said, "Etta might be right. Let's try it her way."

  * * *

  And that's how we came to camp out in an abandoned ranch shack a few miles from Winnemucca. Within an hour of our setting up camp, we had a visitor—a young boy who looked to be maybe fourteen.

  "Howdy," he said. "You all come off the roundup?"

  "Sure did, fellow," Butch said, grinning at the kid. Butch was a sucker for youngsters.

  "That your horse?" The boy jerked his head toward the fine white stallion that Butch was riding these days.

  "Yeah, it is."

  "Want to race?"

  "First I got to know your name," Butch said. "I never race against a fellow whose name I don't know."

  Remembering his manners, the lad stuck out a hand. "Vic," he said, "Vic Button. My pa's foreman at the CS Ranch." He hesitated just a minute. "You're on CS land now... but it's all right. Pa won't mind, seein' as how you've just come off the roundup."

  "Well, Vic Button, that's a fine horse you have there yourself. I'll race you... say, two out of three?"

  The boy agreed and was ready to mount his horse that minute. But Butch put him off, saying he had to prepare and think about it. They'd race the next day.

  Butch raced him and won, three days in a row.

  "That's a fine horse," Vic would say each time he lost. "Runs better than anything I ever saw."

  "Yessir, it's a fine horse," Butch agreed, slapping the horse's shoulder affectionately.

  When he lost on the third day, Button reluctantly held out the reins of his horse, handing them to Butch.

  Startled, Butch said, "I don't want your horse, boy. I'm gonna give this horse to you sometime."

  You could hear the youngster draw his breath in sharp, then release it as though disappointed. "Go on," he said, "you ain't gonna."