Sundance, Butch and Me

by Judy Alter

  "You'll have to tell me what I can do."

  She nodded again and turned away with a shy. "Bye."

  Susanna, I decided, was just like her mother. She didn't have the spunk to help herself. But then I thought that a harsh judgment—she was, after all, only seven or eight. Would she endure this life until she was eighteen or twenty and then marry someone just like her father? Moral interpretation did not come easily to me, but I wondered if I was beginning, in my own mind, to justify my crime by looking at the misery of others, to approve my own action by the inaction of others.

  To my surprise, I enjoyed teaching third grade. The academy had enough teachers—principally the sisters, but with lay persons like me to take on the extra burden—that we were able to study reading and arithmetic with small groups of children, listening to them recite individually. I spent hours helping Susanna and her classmates trace the figures of the Spencerian system of penmanship, encouraging their neat, round penmanship.

  "You look happy," Fannie announced one afternoon as I came home from school, a stack of childishly written papers in my hand for my evening's reading.

  "I am," I told her. "I enjoy the children more than I expected... and I like the academy better than when I was a student there." I didn't add, though, the thought that was always on my mind: Besides. I won't be doing this forever. Sundance is going to come—soon—to take me away.

  It was approaching two years since Sundance visited San Antonio, and I'd had no word from him. Many a day I told myself I was foolish to believe he'd still come back for me. He was, as Annie and Fannie each told me in their own ways, an outlaw without a sense of honor... or commitment. A man unable to love. I had been swept away by a naive infatuation, and to continue to believe in it for two years was childish beyond belief.

  But then I'd remember the way he'd talked about taking me to a bank or the funny way he'd mentioned that wife—was that it? had he reconciled with his wife?—as though I should know about her, and I'd know that Sundance would come back for me sometime.

  Fannie never mentioned him anymore, and even Annie stopped talking about my outlaw. As far as they were concerned, I guess, it was a flash in the pan, something over and done with, about which, if asked, they could say "I told you so." Except that I remembered that Fannie had long thought he would come back for me. Some days I longed to ask her if she still believed that, but I kept my own confidences. In late March of 1896 I received a letter—not from Sundance, but from that Butch Cassidy he had talked about so much. "Dear Miss Place," he wrote,

  My good friend Sundance has told me about you, and I must say I am looking forward to meeting you. Up until recently, my time has not been my own—(I remembered that he was in jail for stealing horses—)

  But now I have joined up with Sundance again, and he has, as I say, told me about you. He is not much of a hand to write letters, but I enjoy it, so I told him I would write you in his place. I hope that by fall you will be with us in Hole-in-the-Wall. I think Sundance hopes that too.

  The letter went on to describe what they were doing, though there was no mention of bank robberies or train holdups. To read Butch's letter, you'd have thought they were a pair of ranchers, trying hard to remain peaceable in a kingdom that was torn apart by the battle between small ranchers and big cattle barons. Butch assured me they stayed out of trouble by remaining beyond the reach of the big ranchers, safely in Hole-in-the-Wall. But Butch's letter, in plain and unemotional language, told of the hanging of one of their friends by vigilantes. "He had too many cattle to suit them," he wrote. And then, describing Hole-in-the-Wall, he concluded,

  It really is a wonderful place, and I know you will like it.

  Yours truly, Butch Cassidy P.S. Sundance sends his best regards.

  I read that letter five times without stopping, locked in my room where no one would disturb me. Sundance was coming for me! I hadn't been childish and naive—I had known true love when it walked right up and hit me in the face. But what did "best regards" mean? And if Sundance and Butch were living together in Hole-in-the-Wall, where was that blasted wife? The letter, which answered so many questions, raised an equal number of new ones. Still, it left me walking on air.

  "Understand you got some mail," Fannie said that evening as the two of us sat at a table apart from the others to eat our supper.

  Hodge, I thought, do you have to tell everything you know? "Yes, ma'am, I did."

  "Sundance?"

  I shook my head to say "no."

  "All right, missy, tell me who the letter was from?"

  She knew that no one had ever written to me in all the years I'd been with her, and there was no one to write but Sundance. Her puzzlement was obvious on her face.

  "Butch Cassidy," I said, and offered no further comment.

  "Butch! He's out of jail! Well, good for him." Then, almost in a rush, "What'd he say?"

  "Would you like to read the letter?" I thought this bold offer would call her hand, but once again I underestimated Fannie.

  "Yes," she said decisively, "I would."

  Without a word, I left my supper cooling and went to my room to retrieve the letter from under my pillow, where I'd hidden it. When I returned, still silent, I handed it to her.

  She read slowly and carefully, sometimes mouthing the words silently as she read. When she finished, she put the letter carefully between the two of us and looked at me. "Well?"

  "Well what?" I asked. "There's nothing to say. The letter is... well, it's not from Sundance." I had started that sentence out boldly but finished it rather lamely.

  Fannie laughed. "You surely didn't ever expect Sundance to write to you, did you?"

  I shook my head. I would never have admitted to her that yes, I had thought at first that he might. Now, after Butch's letter, I simply expected him to ride up to her house one day.

  As though she read my mind, she said, "Sundance will just ride up here one day, and you'll be gone." Then, with a catch in her voice, her hand reaching to cover mine, she said, "And I'll be lonely without you." She raised her head and stared as though looking a far distance away. "Girls come and go here, and I don't mourn over a one of them—save maybe Juniper—but you're different. And Lord knows, I'll miss you, Etta Place."

  "I won't ever go forever," I told her. "And I'm not like Sundance. I'll write letters."

  "Lord love you," she said, "I know you will."

  * * *

  It was a good thing that school was out in May, for from that time on I had a hard time concentrating on my duties.

  "Miss Place," Susanna asked on the last day of classes, "will you be here when we come back to school?"

  "Of course, Susanna," I said instinctively, and then thought that the child deserved more honesty. "Well, maybe. I'm not sure."

  "Would you... could you come help Mama again this summer? She really needs you." The blue eyes were solemn, and I thought I saw tears welling up in them. Carefully, Susanna ran a hand across the lower lids of her eyes, "Mama says we're going to have another brother or sister sometime this summer."

  I bit my tongue to quiet the protest that rose in my throat. "What good news!" I said with deliberate cheer. "I'm sure you're excited."

  Susanna shook her head. "Mama says I'll have to take care of the others and learn to help her cook for Papa."

  I could see the weight of the world settling on this child. "I know you'll be a big help to your mama," I said. Fannie, I wondered, can't you take this child in when I'm gone? But Fannie was not in the business of raising abused children. I was a one-time experiment, and I knew that. I worried about Susanna—and the other small Brewster children—but I knew that once Sundance came for me, I would turn my back on San Antonio... and Fannie, and Susanna, and Hodge and Julie, without a backward glance.

  I lived in anticipation.

  Chapter 10

  He came for me one day in June—really one morning. I had taken the habit of sleeping late—not as late as the girls—now that school was out and I had no
daily schedule. So it was close to nine o'clock when I wandered into the kitchen, wearing a light lawn wrapper, my hair still in tangles about my face.

  He was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, watching Julie knead bread. It was her startled look that made him turn toward me, and then his face broke into a grin. "Good morning. You're looking particularly lovely this morning."

  Embarrassed, I turned to leave, but his hand reached out and grabbed my arm gently. "No, don't go, I meant it. You look wonderful."

  "I haven't made my toilette," I stuttered.

  "I know. I like you this way." And then Harry Longabaugh kissed me—not the gentle kiss he'd given me when he left, but a strong kiss from a man to a woman he loves. My mouth tingled, and I felt a strange pull in the pit of my stomach. Instead of backing away, I moved instinctively toward him, my mouth working to meet his.

  Hodge coughed discreetly. "Miss Fannie... she be coming into the kitchen any minute."

  Sundance drew away but held firm to my hand. "She wouldn't be surprised, Hodge. She knows why I'm here." His smile wrapped around me, and I wanted to plant my mouth on his, to continue where we'd left off. He must have known, for he whispered to me, "We've plenty of time." Then, more loudly, "Come and have some breakfast before you do that 'toilette' or whatever you call it."

  I ate biscuits and good homemade peach preserves, but they tasted like cardboard, and my coffee might as well have been water. My eyes never left: Sundance, though I wondered inanely if I was going to be such a dolt all my days with him.

  "So you're back!" Fannie strode into the kitchen. She too was barely out of bed, but she had combed her hair and patted a little color into her cheeks. And her wrapper was flowing and satin.

  "Fannie, how lovely you look!"

  I couldn't tell if he meant it or if there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice. Fannie couldn't tell either.

  "Don't try to flatter me, Sundance. I know why you're here."

  He shrugged. "I guess we all know. I told Etta I'd be back for her."

  Fannie whirled toward me. "And there's no sense asking if you'll go with him, is there? Even though it's been two years since you've heard from him?"

  Sundance made no effort to defend himself or explain the two years, and I simply shook my head.

  "Sundance," she said, "I expect people to make their own way in this world, and most times I think they get what they deserve. But this child—she was only a child when she came to me—got off to a particularly bad start." She stood before him now, her eyes boring into his. "I don't expect you to do anything to hurt her."

  He shifted uncomfortably. "I surely wouldn't do anything deliberately, Fannie. I think you know that."

  "It's the things you do un-deliberately that worry me," she said with acid in her voice. Then, turning to me, "Etta, my recommendation is that you don't go. But you know that, and I know that you won't listen. But you also know that I'm here if you ever need anything. You just send me a telegraph."

  A softhearted Fannie made me squirm in discomfort. "Yes, ma'am, I do know that, and I appreciate it... and, Fannie, there's no way..."

  She brushed me away. "Now, don't go getting mushy on me. What I did for you, I did because I wanted to. And you've made me proud. I suspect in some way you're still going to make me proud. I... I just worry...." And with that she turned and fled to her bedroom, calling over her shoulder, "Hodge, bring me a tray!"

  Sundance and I stood looking at each other, and I remembered one of Pa's old sayings that I always hated: "The fat is in the fire."

  Sundance did not want to linger. I had one day to pack my clothes and books, tuck away my treasured pictures of Mama and Ab, and box up my school papers to be stored in Fannie's attic.

  "You need new clothes," he said.

  "I have plenty of clothes," I protested. "Fannie always bought me new clothes for school in the fall."

  Laughing, he said, "It's bad enough that I'm stealing away a schoolgirl. I won't have you looking like one."

  And so he took me shopping. His wallet apparently had no bottom, for he bought me a silver gray suit of china silk, with pink piping on the jacket and a hat with pink feathers to match. While I whirled before the mirror and a nervous saleslady hovered over me, Sundance lounged back on a chair, his eyes smiling with delight.

  "My," he said, "won't you be the hit in Fort Worth!"

  "Fort Worth? I thought we were going to Wyoming."

  "We are. But the train goes through Fort Worth, and I can't pass Cowtown without stopping."

  Then there were dark skirts and brightly colored shirts for everyday wear—none of the white batiste I'd been wearing!—and practical wrappers of cotton and flannel. "It gets cold in Wyoming," he warned.

  But the most outrageous and the outfit that delighted my heart was a silk serge suit of dark brown, almost a mahogany, piped with black cable cord. It fit tightly at the waist and flared into a gored skirt, the kind newly fashionable. It made me feel sophisticated.

  "Where will I wear it?" I asked.

  "We'll find a place," he assured me. "You'll wear it for me."

  My heart did one of those little jumps, and I had to look away from him.

  Then there was the matter of nightclothes. I blushed furiously when Sundance said to the salesgirl, "Bring us a selection of nightgowns."

  That poor woman, probably thinking there was a honeymoon in the future—well, in a way there was, wasn't there?—brought filmy creations of satin and silk, things that Fannie would have worn.

  "No." Sundance waved his hand to brush her away. "We're going to Wyoming. It's cold. Do you have anything warm?"

  In San Antonio? I wanted to ask, but I kept quiet, while the saleslady trotted out one or two flannel wrappers.

  "Sundance," I whispered, "I have warm wrappers aplenty."

  He shrugged. Then a smile lit his face, and he said, "Let me see that pink satin one again. Here, hold it up to her."

  The puzzled saleswoman obliged, and it seemed that the wrapper would fit me. "We'll take that, too," he said.

  "What about the cold weather?" I asked.

  "It's for Fort Worth," he said.

  * * *

  "You need a valise," he said. "What were you planning to do? Put your clothes in a pillowcase to carry them on the train?"

  "I never had a valise," I told him. "I never had enough clothes to worry about before Fannie started to dress me."

  He looked askance at me. "And she'd have you looking like a schoolgirl forever. Come on, girl."

  We bought a small, calfskin-covered trunk, and then more clothes than I could fit into it.

  * * *

  Sundance stayed at Fannie's two nights before we left, and he slept upstairs—alone. As I lay in my bed, I wondered why he was not next to me, why he showed no interest in sleeping with me. Was it Fannie? I'd think yes, that was it, and then I'd know that Sundance was not a man to be intimidated by Fannie. It was a puzzle—daytimes he was affectionate, even nuzzling my neck in front of Fannie or Julie or Hodge—but at night, he gave me a swift peck on the cheek and went upstairs. I knew that he went alone and stayed alone, because Annie reported to me.

  "He isn't staying with Fannie this time," she said in a conspirator's tone. "He really did go upstairs alone at night... and I saw him leave that room in the morning."

  "And what," I asked archly, "were you doing awake so early in the morning?"

  When she answered, "Watching out for you," I felt guilty and gave her a hug.

  "Oh, Etta," she said, "I... I worry about you, but I'm also as jealous as I can be. I want to be out of here... to do something exciting. Do you suppose I'm going to stay here forever, until I'm too old...?"

  "No," I assured her, "you're not." But I had no idea then what Annie would do to escape her life at Fannie's.

  * * *

  Fannie turned uncharacteristically sentimental when the carriage pulled up to take us to the train station. She started out full of bravado.

  "Sundance, you take good c
are of this girl, or I'll..."

  "You'll what, Fannie?" he asked, his eyes dancing with laughter.

  "I'll sic every lawman in the West on you, that's what I'll do."

  He threw up his hands in mock surrender. "I believe you, Fannie, I do. And I'll take as good care of her as I can." He turned to look at me. "But she'll have to learn to take care of herself, too."

  "I believe she's already proven she can do that," Fannie said dryly. "Perhaps you best watch how you behave, Sundance."

  I didn't share in their laughter.

  But when I'd said my goodbyes to Julie and Hodge and Annie—the other girls simply peered out of an upstairs window with a kind of bored curiosity—Fannie came forward, and though she was dry-eyed, I saw real sadness on her face.

  "I'll... well, hell, kid, I'll miss you."

  It was one of those rare times when Fannie and I hugged, and this time I made the first gesture. "I'll miss you, Fannie... but you must know that I will always be grateful to you. I owe you my life—and more."

  "Hogwash," she said impatiently, trying to brush away a tear so that we wouldn't see it. "If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have hooked up with this lowlife." She jerked her head in Sundance's direction, and he replied, "Always a pleasure, Fannie. Thanks so much."

  "Go on with you," she said, raising a hand as though she'd swat him.

  As we drove away, she walked to the porch of the house and then turned to raise a hand. It made me cry, but Sundance only said, "Don't worry about her, Etta. She's not that sad. That's one tough woman."

  I raised my head almost angrily. "So am I. And she is that sad... because I am too." I would not have let him see a tear for the life of me.

  It made him laugh again. "All right," he said between chortles, "all right. I know you're strong, and I'm forewarned."

  Vaguely, I noticed that he had substituted "strong" for "tough." There was a difference, but I wasn't sure yet what it was.

  Once I boarded the train, I felt like a new person. In part, it had nothing to do with Sundance. I realized, almost instantaneously, that I was a different person from the girl who had ridden the train from Palestine to San Antonio some five years earlier. Age was part of the difference, of course, but I had gone from a sheltered country girl, usually barefoot and in a cotton dress made from a flour sack, to a young woman, well educated, the product of a whorehouse. Oh, I guess Sundance was part of it—he had, after all, dressed me in the most sophisticated clothes I'd ever had, and he was treating me as though I were a woman of the world. Only he and I knew that I was still a schoolgirl.