Sundance, Butch and Me

by Judy Alter

  When I returned, Sundance said seriously, "Such talk upsets her, Mr. McLean. She was raised delicately, you know," and Mr. McLean fell all over himself apologizing for his ill manners.

  * * *

  Mostly, though, I just enjoyed city life. We generally ate at Peers House, where the food was reliably good, and sometimes—well, frequently—Sundance sat in on a poker game at the White Elephant Saloon. On a warm afternoon, we might take the trolley out to Lake Como and stroll around the shore or across the bridges and stay into the evening to hear the band play. It was a far cry from Hole-in-the-Wall, but if I missed that life, I managed to keep my longing hidden from Sundance.

  What I really missed was Butch, mostly because I was worried about him. Some niggling ghost in the back of my mind told me he was in trouble, but there was nothing I could do about it, and I kept that fear, too, a secret from Sundance.

  Butch arrived in November, walking into Maddox Flats as though he'd just been down the street for a beer. "Hey," he said when I answered the knock on the door, "you miss me?"

  "Miss you?" I cried, flinging myself into his arms. "I was frantic for fear you'd been captured."

  He set me carefully back down on the floor and held me at arm's length. "You got that second sight or something?" He was dead serious.

  "What're you talking about?" Sundance demanded, pulling himself off the bed where he'd been lounging.

  "She thinks I got caught," Butch said, "and she's right. I did."

  I gasped, my hand instantly over my mouth. "What happened?" There it was again, that sense of disbelief—all that time, they'd known that capture was a possibility. I'd never believed it... until now.

  "Stayed with a pal just before I headed into the Powder River Range," Butch said, "and he asked me to deliver a message to somebody up on Rye Grass Creek. I did, and then I got to thinking how good that creek would feel if I was to get into it. So I hung my gun belt on a tree limb and waded in, throwin' that cool water on my face, when I heard a thunk."

  "A thunk?" Sundance asked in disbelief.

  Butch looked at him solemnly. "A thunk. I knowed I was in trouble right then. Turned out a deputy sheriff named Morgan had a gun on me, and my own bein' so far away, wasn't a thing I could do 'cept wait my turn. He surely took care that I wouldn't escape. Took my pistol and the shells and put them in different pockets on his saddlebag, handcuffed me, and then tied my feet under the saddle. I mean, I was helpless as a baby."

  "Where was he taking you?" I asked, thinking of the Wyoming state penitentiary or some equally awful place.

  "We didn't talk about that. Don't even know how much he knew about who I was. We just didn't talk beyond 'Don't try anything smart' and that kind of stuff. Spent the night at a ranch, where I had to sleep handcuffed to him." Butch grinned. "I've spent the night with better partners, I'll tell you that."

  "Butch!" I said. "Get on with the story. I mean, how are you here?"

  " 'Cause I'm smarter than he is," he said complacently. "Second day, we were really dry and came to a creek. His horse wouldn't drink with the bit in its mouth, and he got off to see to that. By then he'd untied my feet and taken off the handcuffs—those were his mistakes, but I didn't tell him that at the time. Anyway, I just moved my horse close up on his, got the pistol out of one saddlebag and some bullets out of the other, and while he was busy worrying with that sorry-mouthed animal, I got the drop on him."

  "You shoot him?" Sundance asked coldly.

  " 'Course not," Butch said. "I left him out there, told him the way to Sheridan. It wasn't more than four, five miles to the next ranch, so I knew he wasn't in much trouble. 'Cept his pride was hurt."

  "And then you came right down here," I said, filling in the rest of the story for him.

  "Naw," he said. "I still had to go to Lander. But I got here as quick as I could. What'd I miss? Any of the others here?"

  * * *

  "The others"—and that was really how I thought of them—began to drift in, each bringing a woman with him this time. First came the Tall Texan, Ben Kilpatrick, bringing with him the Indian woman, Delia. She wore pants and boots and would have looked like one of the men if she weren't of such slight stature. I could swear I saw her give a scornful look to the challis dress I wore, but Sundance said later that was just my imagination.

  "Are they staying here?" I asked him that night, cuddled comfortably against his back.

  "Hmmm," he murmured.

  "Does that mean yes?"

  He turned toward me. "It means yes, they're all going to stay here."

  "All?" I echoed, hating the thought of sharing Sundance and Butch with "the others."

  "Curry's coming, gone to San Antonio to get Annie, and Will Carver's bringing Lillie. They're going to get married."

  "Curry?" My voice turned to ice. "You said I'd never have to be near him again."

  "You still got that knife?" Sundance tried to make a joke of it. Then he sobered, and said, "It's the last reunion for the whole gang... and, well, he's part of it. But I swear to you, Etta, he lays a hand on you, he's dead."

  I'd heard that before, and I knew I'd have to protect myself.

  "Will and Lillie are getting married?" I asked. "Why would they do that?"

  He grinned at me. "Why do people usually get married? Because they love each other, I guess."

  "Will Carver doesn't love her," I said scornfully. "He's never been around her that much, and besides, he beats her. You think he'll settle down in a nice house with a picket fence around it and raise children? Of course he won't!" I sat up in bed, propelled by my indignation, and pulled the blanket up to cover me.

  Sundance let out a yelp. "Could you share the blanket? And what do you care if he won't settle down? Maybe that's not what she expects." He paused a minute. "Is that what you expect out of marriage?"

  I considered whacking him with the flat of my hand and then remembered I criticized Will Carver for that very kind of treatment of Lillie. Instead I clenched my hands around my knees and thought for a long minute. "It's not what I expect from you," I said, "but it's what I generally think of marriage."

  It was Sundance's turn to be silent, now that he was propped up against the headboard of the bed, half sitting beside me. "My parents have been married a long time," he said, "and I used to wonder how they stood each other after so much time."

  "My parents were married a long time, and I knew the answer to that question," I said dryly.

  "How do we know that wouldn't happen to us?" he asked.

  "We aren't going to find out," I said firmly.

  He put an arm around me, as though to erase that memory, and shook his head. "No. I mean, married or not, how do we know that we wouldn't—well, grow bored with each other? Get up in the morning and think, 'Oh, Lord, another day.' I don't want to live that way."

  I wondered if he knew there were days I already felt that way, days when I wondered what life without Sundance would be like. It was just that when I had those thoughts, I didn't know what else to do.

  He nodded, grinning in recognition of the truth. "But if we go to South America, and we turn into respectable ranchers, and we get married—"

  "We're not getting married."

  "Well," he said, "I thought we might think about it."

  "All right," I replied, "I'll think about it." And I turned away from him, plumped the skimpy pillow, and pulled the covers comfortably about me.

  From behind me came a plaintive voice: "If that's what it's going to be like, forget the marriage."

  * * *

  We celebrated Christmas quietly in Fort Worth, sharing a dinner of prime rib at Peers House with Butch and exchanging small gifts—a fine leather bag for me and a new derby for Sundance, though he had to exchange it later for one in a smaller size. "I thought your head was bigger," I murmured.

  Carver and Lillie came the day after Christmas, and I couldn't see that the prospect of marriage had made her any happier. Her eyes were still dark and sunken in her cheeks, and her
smile still seemed slashed across her face. But she put on a good front, chattering with all of us about how glad she was to be married in the midst of us. Will, whom I had always thought of as decent—at least compared to Curry—stood silently by, listening and watching with a look of slight embarrassment on his face.

  Butch asked him once, "You sure you want to do this?" but he said it with a grin on his face and clapped a hearty hand on Will's shoulder. Another time, Butch gave Lillie a big hug and a hearty "I hope you'll be very happy."

  The mood turned less jubilant when Curry arrived. "Married?" he said in astonishment. "You need to let me talk to you, Carver. I can talk you out of this."

  If looks could kill, as the old saying goes, it would have been a toss-up as to who got him first, Annie or Lillie. Curry, however, was oblivious.

  "Man doesn't want to get married when he can get it for free," he went on loudly. And then he said the unpardonable. "Look at Sundance, here. He's got the right idea."

  I froze, a statue half turned toward him, and the parlor where we'd all gathered turned deadly quiet. Butch cleared his throat nervously, and Will Carver stared at the ceiling, reaching out blindly to clutch Lillie's hand. Delia stared impassively at the scene, but the Tall Texan looked nervously from Curry to Sundance.

  It seemed an hour that we stood that way, each stopped in midmotion by what Curry had said. But it truly wasn't more than half a minute before Sundance said softly, "Etta and I are thinking about getting married, Curry." Those blue eyes had turned to steel.

  Curry gave me a look that was of pure hatred.

  I returned it. Anger boiled up in me that the man who'd attacked me was here among us, and no one except me seemed to think anything of it.

  Annie pulled Curry out of the room none too gently, and I could see outrage blazing in her eyes. Beyond Butch and Sundance and maybe me, she was the one other person in the world who wasn't afraid of Curry and his reputation, and I suspected she had an idea of what had happened back in Nevada. Curry was so dumb he might have bragged about it, even though he came out on the losing end.

  Late that night, my anger exploded at Sundance. "Why in the hell do I have to be around that man?" I demanded.

  "He's one of us," he said reluctantly, avoiding looking at me. "Some come and go, but the six of us—counting Elzy—we're the real thing. I'd have told Curry to beat it, but the others..." He shrugged, as though to show me his innocence.

  Suddenly a thought crept unbidden to my mind. "He's... he's not going to South America with us, is he?"

  Sundance's laugh was a little too quick, a little too nervous. "With us? No, of course not." But then he added, " 'Course, I can't guarantee what he'll do later on. Man's free to go where he wants."

  I knew right then that Curry would end up in South America.

  * * *

  The wedding took place in the parlor of Maddox Flats, late on a wintry afternoon. Sundance stood for the groom, and Annie for the bride. A justice of the peace—I can't even remember his name—was hurried into the parlor, with Butch on one side and Kilpatrick on the other. It wasn't much of a fancy wedding. Lillie wore a plain blue challis dress, fitted at the waist, and someone—Annie? surely not Will!—had gotten her a small bouquet of silk flowers, which she held awkwardly, as though not sure what to do with it. Annie and I had on white waists with dark skirts, mine of wool but Annie's much more showy, of taffeta that crinkled as she walked. I wondered if she wanted to be the next bride. Delia still dressed like a man.

  It was the men who looked spiffy, however. Each had a new suit, with a double-breasted vest, wide ties neatly in place, watch chains obvious beneath their open jackets. And each wore a brand-new black felt derby—the others, including Butch, had all imitated Sundance and bought hats just like his Christmas gift. They doffed them in respect during the brief ceremony.

  And it was brief. A few murmured words, the traditional "Do you take this woman...?" and "Do you take this man...?" answered by mumbled words. There was nothing about man not putting asunder what God had joined together, just a straightforward. "You are now man and wife."

  Carver kissed Lillie hesitantly, and Ben Kilpatrick immediately said, "You can do better than that, Will. Here, let me show you." With that he swept a protesting Lillie into his arms and gave her a sound kiss of congratulations.

  The others of course followed suit, Curry grabbing Lillie so roughly she cried out in protest and pushed him away. He pretended not to notice and kissed her so hard, I ached for her—and longed to kick him again.

  Afterward there was much champagne and a feast of quail on toast points, roasted potatoes, a fruit compote, and a high white coconut cake. We women were, I thought, a trifle solemn: Lillie looked overwhelmed, Annie looked angry, mostly at Curry, and Delia looked sullen and resentful.

  The men's hilarity could be measured by the bottles of champagne. "Who knows when we'll all be together again?" Butch asked plaintively.

  "You all just come down to South America," Sundance said expansively.

  "We should pose for a picture," Carver said suddenly. "You know, make a record of the occasion. The wedding... and, well, a reunion and maybe a farewell."

  The others all thought it a wonderful idea, except Curry, who said, "I'm not sittin' for no picture. That's how you get caught. Somebody sees that picture and they trace it and..."

  They scoffed at him for being fussy and scared and finally talked him into it.

  "They gonna be in the picture?" he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the chairs where I sat with Annie and Delia.

  A pause. They hadn't thought about that. Sundance spoke up: "Will and Lillie will have their picture made, a wedding picture, but we're talking about a Wild Bunch picture."

  Relieved, I sank back in my chair and watched them troop out the door. They went down the street to the studio of John Swartz, who obliged them by taking a group photograph. Each man had a print of his own a week later, and the others hung around Fort Worth just to wait for that picture. I couldn't believe the vanity.

  It is a fine picture. Sundance, Kilpatrick, and Butch are seated, Butch in an ornate wooden chair with claw feet and carved and curved armrests, and Sundance in a wicker chair with splayed legs that give a slight air of instability, as though the chair might collapse under him at any moment. Between them, Kilpatrick sits straight, at least a head taller. The bridegroom stands behind Sundance, one hand on his shoulder, and Curry is behind Butch, a hand on his shoulder. All wear their derbies, and all stare straight into the camera. Carver looks a little overwhelmed—the effect of getting married, no doubt—but Butch has ever so slight a grin, as though he knows a secret. They could be partners in a profitable—and legitimate—law firm.

  "Photographer liked it so well he put one up in his window. Advertises the quality photographs he takes," Butch said proudly, as though it were the attractiveness of the subjects and not the skill of the photographer that was being touted.

  "Bad sign," Curry said. "You best go rip it down, tell him we don't want no publicity."

  They scoffed at him again.

  Within twenty-four hours they had all left Fort Worth—Curry to Wyoming with Kilpatrick and Delia for company, talking about Wagner, Montana, and the train stop there. Annie went back to Fannie's, and Will and Lillie were off to meet the bride's parents in East Texas.

  They had been with us nearly a week, and we were relieved to see them go.

  "Whew," Sundance said, "it was great to be with them, but I'm glad they're gone."

  "That's how you usually feel about family," Butch replied.

  Within a week, we heard that a Wells Fargo detective named Fred Dodge had asked John Swartz for a copy of the picture.

  "Maybe," Butch said as we hastily packed, "we should have chosen a photography studio that wasn't down the block from the Wells Fargo office."

  "Yeah," Sundance muttered.

  We took the first train out of Fort Worth, headed east, traveling like rich folk with several trunks. />
  * * *

  We almost got married in New York, though I would have been a reluctant bride. It was Sundance's idea. He got down on one knee in front of me, sweeping that derby hat off his head and holding it dramatically in front of his chest. He really did all that, and I was glad Butch wasn't there to see it. We were in our room at Mrs. Riley's, a comfortably furnished house in Brooklyn. Ours was a front room, with a window looking down on a skinny street where children played in a fresh but already dirty snow.

  Slowly, as though his knees hurt him, he stood back up and walked to the window, staring down at the city street scene, so far from his beloved Wyoming. "I don't know," he said, "it just seems like the thing to do before we go off so far."

  I decided then and there that Harry Longabaugh—Sundance, the Kid, fearless bank and train robber—was apprehensive about leaving his family, his native country, the whole life he'd known. Marrying me wasn't going to make any difference, but he didn't know that. I didn't say anything.

  He turned away from the window and looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face. "It will make everything permanent. I mean, if we're going to be respectable, law-abiding citizens, then we ought to be married like everybody else."

  But were we going to be respectable, law-abiding citizens? I remembered my instinctive feeling that Curry would end up in South America with us. If that happened, the law was out the window. And were Butch and Sundance going to settle down to a quiet life?

  "We can pretend," I said. "We can tell everyone we're married... we can even have a wedding photo taken." I warmed to my idea. "Of course, I'd need a new gown...."

  His expression changed. "You won't marry me! That's really what you're saying, isn't it?"