Sundance

by David Fuller

  “What do you say?”

  “Mr. Longbaugh, after an injury like yours, I’ve seen patients struggle with depression and anxiety.”

  “What do you say to your critics?”

  She looked aside as if deciding whether or not to answer. She looked back. “That those who profit by manufacturing the tools of war incite both sides. A buildup has been in progress for some time. A certain gentleman, an armaments manufacturer, Mr. Spense of Great Britain, insists to my face that he would never ever do such a thing.” She paused. “He would, of course, and does. Without it, perhaps war would be less . . . inevitable.”

  Longbaugh remembered the man in the hotel café who had said Miller’s Wild West Show had had their horses and stagecoaches confiscated by the British.

  “What does that have to do with sacrifice?”

  She stared at him.

  “I heard you say it to one of your people.”

  She graced him with a tart smile. “When you were with fever, no doubt. I will speak to the girls about all of us remaining more circumspect.” She sighed as she looked about, choosing a way to make light of herself while bringing the discussion to a rapid close. “The idea, to be perfectly pedantic, is if we all step away from politics and sacrifice for a change, particularly if our men of business choose to not profit on war, then, to flog a dead horse, perhaps, perhaps it would be less inevitable.”

  “And your critics call that naïve?”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Very subtle, Mr. Longbaugh. But we won’t know unless we try.”

  “And if they stockpile and we don’t?”

  “The providers of the raw materials of ordnance are often the same for both sides, like Mr. Spense. If he chose to join the sacrifice, then at least part of the buildup comes to a sudden and fortuitous end.” She stood and made a small bow. “This discussion is now over, and you shall get some rest.”

  “I’ve been unappreciative.”

  She self-consciously forced herself to settle down. “And I’m a little touchy. I recently discovered that I dislike the humiliation, the presumption of naïveté, and the general laughter at my expense. Although I suspect I was no more fond of it when I was young.”

  “Will there be war?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  His spirits sank a notch. He was glad the discussion was at an end. She, however, had something more.

  “But if I am naïve, if there is no way to stop it, I will use all my political might to fight the J. P. Morgans and keep the Spenses from adding to their fortunes, for at the very least our boys should have weapons that perform. That is a business sacrifice of which I must insist.”

  “Very sensible,” he said, his eyes starting to close.

  • • •

  HE WAS NOT a good patient and was up and walking around sooner than the nurses would have liked. But a nurse named Jennifer took pity on him and decided, if he was determined to walk around, let him walk around in his own clothes. She brought them to him, cleaned and folded. He noticed immediately that his bandanna wasn’t there and began to go through his pockets. Jennifer watched him.

  “Something missing?” she said.

  “Bandanna.”

  “You had a bandanna?”

  “It was green, olive.”

  “Oh. I’m afraid I thought it was a rag.”

  “It’s not here.”

  She knew that her news wasn’t good. “I tried to get the blood out of it, but it wouldn’t come clean, so I scrubbed it and, well, it came apart in my hands.”

  “And you put what was left of it where?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Longbaugh, but I’m afraid I threw it out. I never would have if I had known it had sentimental value.”

  Longbaugh sat on the side of the bed. She saw the expression on his face.

  “I’ve done a terrible thing.”

  “No, Jennifer, it’s fine, please, don’t give it a second thought.”

  She sat on the chair opposite him. “I am truly sorry, Mr. Longbaugh. I did notice it, it was such an unusual color. But wait, I know I’ve seen bandannas at the department store, very nice red ones.”

  “You’ve done so much for me, I cannot thank you enough. It was just a rag.”

  Losing the bandanna caused Longbaugh to think about the ribbons Etta had left for him. The ones he had found along the way were still in the pocket of his trousers. He wondered if Etta might have left one here. But as he thought about it more, he realized she would not have. Between Abigail explaining that she had left in a hurry and Hightower’s story about her confrontation with Moretti, he knew she wouldn’t have taken the time to come back here. Just enough time to leave one in the boardinghouse privy and another in her rented room. Nonetheless, as the days passed and he grew stronger and expanded his walks through the Settlement, he caught himself looking for anything that shade of olive.

  • • •

  HAN FEI FIDGETED. He and Longbaugh sat on a back porch so that Longbaugh would not be seen from the street. Significant activity was taking place on the street, out of their sight, as the city brought in bleachers for the pageant. The heavy hum he had thought he imagined when he was with fever was back with the large delivery trucks.

  They spent long, quiet stretches listening to the noise. Longbaugh wanted to let the young man know how much he appreciated his help, but it seemed as if Han Fei was uncomfortable being thanked.

  “You ever been to a pageant?”

  “Not with white people.”

  “Seems like they’re going to a lot of trouble.”

  Han Fei nodded. “Seems.”

  “They say they could have ten thousand people.”

  Han Fei nodded. “Ten thousand.”

  “Where will they put them?”

  Han Fei shrugged. “Not at my place.”

  “I know this is a silly question, but how did you know I was here?”

  “Looked for you.”

  “And ended up here.”

  “You came here before. And they have nurses.”

  A few of the Settlement girls had heard rumors on the street that someone had been shot and stabbed by the Black Hand, but he must have been some kind of supernatural spirit because he hadn’t died. Longbaugh figured Han Fei may have heard the same and somehow put it together. Longbaugh thought it was possible Siringo could make a similar leap. Siringo had been by to speak to Lillian Wald about Etta, but as far as he knew, he had not been back.

  “The other one, the one like me. He still around?”

  “Still around.”

  “At the boardinghouse?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You know when he’s not there?”

  “I can find him if I look.”

  “He’s good.”

  “I can find him if I look, cowboy.”

  “It wasn’t an insult.”

  “Okay.”

  Longbaugh tried to find a safe topic.

  “How are they doing, the Levis?”

  “She’s happier.”

  “No more meetings with tall Chinese haters?”

  “You said something to him.”

  “What would I say?”

  “He doesn’t curse me now. Just acts like I’m not there.”

  “Maybe he’s reformed.”

  “No. You said something.”

  “How about Levi? How does he seem?”

  “Saw him smile. Right after she smiled at him.”

  “She smiled at him?”

  “He took her hand.”

  “And she smiled.”

  “She smiled.”

  “Well.” Longbaugh was pleased.

  The noise stopped. The lack of activity made them both turn their heads and wait. Then it started again.

  Longbaugh nodded. “Pagean
t. Funny thing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Songs and skits?”

  “So they say.”

  “For the twentieth anniversary of the Settlement.”

  “Twenty years is forever,” said Han Fei.

  Longbaugh smiled and wondered how old he was. Another quiet moment, then something on the street, out of sight, crashed. Han Fei’s eyes went wide. “That didn’t sound good.”

  “If you go back and you’re sure there’s no Siringo, I left something.”

  “I brought everything.”

  “Statue of Liberty toy.”

  Han Fei wrinkled his nose in disbelief.

  “They sell those off carts. I can lift one faster than blow my nose.”

  “This one’s special.”

  “Those aren’t special, cowboy. They’re ugly as sin.”

  “You’re right. It’s not important.”

  An immigrant looked up from the courtyard below and spotted Han Fei. He elbowed the man nearest him and pointed.

  Han Fei sat back, and Longbaugh stood up and stared at the man below, and the man looked surprised and turned away.

  “What’s that about?”

  “The little Chink.”

  “Yeah, and everyone comes here, so why do they care?”

  “Good question.” Han Fei looked away, bitterly.

  “She accepts anyone, I mean, she accepts former slaves, and you know how popular they are.”

  “Almost as popular as Chinks.”

  “So why don’t they hate her, didn’t she help start that negro association?”

  “National Association for the Advancement of Colored People,” said Han Fei. “You have faith in people, cowboy. But they don’t care what she thinks. Just glad someone’s lower on the totem pole.”

  Han Fei looked at the way he was standing. “You’re doing better. Moving around.”

  Longbaugh realized it was true. The pain was such that, although still present, he had begun to ignore it.

  • • •

  THE NEXT NIGHT, on the night of the Henry Street pageant, Han Fei brought him the Statue of Liberty toy. He also brought Siringo.

  The streets around Henry Street were so busy with the pageant that Han Fei had missed seeing Siringo follow him in the crowd.

  Longbaugh wondered how Han Fei had managed to get in. “House chiefs,” chosen from the students and staff, were at every door on the block, strictly monitoring the crowd and admitting a maximum of five people per window to watch the pageant down on the street. The whole building had been buzzing and busy for more than two hours. Longbaugh considered himself lucky that his room was on the other side, so he was undisturbed.

  Han Fei came in with the toy, proud that he’d gotten through. Longbaugh took it and looked at the point of the flame, and thought there might be a fleck of dried blood in one of the folds. Longbaugh was trying to think of some way to show his gratitude when the nurse Jennifer opened his door, walked in, and began to pack his clothes.

  “There’s a man downstairs looking for you,” she said.

  He watched her pull his extra shirt from a drawer.

  “You left your post, Jennifer. You’re a house chief, and you left your post,” said Longbaugh.

  She added his shaving gear, closed up his bag, and held it out to him.

  “I put one of the little ones in charge. You know how the little ones are, no one gets by. Hey,” she looked closely at Han Fei for the first time, “how’d you get in?”

  “What man, and why are you sure it’s for me?”

  “Because men like him don’t come here for our services, and he’s not interested in the pageant. Time for you to go.”

  “Oh, cowboy,” said Han Fei miserably, knowing what must have happened.

  Jennifer was in control. “I have him searching the ground floor. A lot of people here, Mr. Longbaugh. You’ve got time. At least thirty seconds.”

  “Thank you, Jennifer.” She closed the door as she went back to her post.

  “It’s all right, Han Fei, not your fault.” Longbaugh lifted his bag.

  Han Fei’s expression said he believed it was.

  “I’ve been here too long already.”

  Han Fei was determined. “I’ll get you out.”

  “Not this time.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Yes you can, but I need you to do something else.”

  • • •

  CHARLIE SIRINGO moved from room to room, casing the second floor, having satisfied himself that Longbaugh was not on the ground floor. The rooms facing Henry Street were difficult, as he had to check every celebrating person watching the pageant while hanging out a window in a group of five.

  He moved fast, but it was unlikely to be fast enough. If Longbaugh was there, someone was bound to warn him. He took the stairs two at a time and on the third floor he saw an open door at the far end. There he found a sickroom with someone under covers. He crossed to the bed and yanked back the sheet. The small Chinese boy he had followed rolled over to look up at him, fully clothed with his shoes on. The boy offered a false look of surprise, but Siringo was already moving back to the hallway. He considered throwing open every door, but knew it was already too late. His one chance was to go to work on the Chinese kid.

  He returned to the boy on the bed, a Statue of Liberty toy in his hands.

  “Where?”

  Han Fei’s eyes darted up over his head for a second, then glared at him with stubborn defiance. “Downstairs.”

  “The roof.”

  Han Fei looked stricken. “Yes, that’s it,” he said finally, as if Siringo might assume the opposite.

  “Yes,” Siringo said, smiling, “that’s it.”

  Han Fei made a halfhearted effort to get around Siringo to block his path, but Siringo was quick, down the hall, taking the stairs up, two at a time. He found the door to the roof and hesitated, thinking a forewarned Longbaugh might be armed. He drew his gun from his holster, and pushed through the door into the night air.

  A crush of onlookers lined the Henry Street side of the roof, watching the pageant below. He walked behind them, occasionally tapping a man on the shoulder who would turn and prove to be someone other than Harry Longbaugh. He looked down and saw the street filled with people, thousands and thousands of them, surrounding a staging area in the middle of the street with a large fire built there. The history of lower Manhattan was being played out, Indian squaws meeting the incoming Dutch. The Dutch were portrayed in fanciful costumes that included windmills, wooden shoes, and tulips. The lighting was bright, as if the sun was setting between the buildings.

  Siringo turned away, disappointed. He walked back to the door to the inside, then scanned the open space, his gaze falling on the roofs across the way that also flanked Henry Street. He stopped when he saw Longbaugh. He crossed to the back corner of the building and put a hand on top of the cornice. The street below was quieter than the one on the other side, where the pageant played out, but this street was also powerfully lit, jammed with actors in costume awaiting their cues to join the festivities, some quietly singing, some rehearsing their lines, some laughing in anticipation of their big moment. Siringo looked up at the moon, near full, two hands above the tenement roofs. He looked over to where Longbaugh grinned at him, and there wasn’t a thing Siringo could do about it, as Longbaugh stood on another rooftop across the street.

  “Hello, Harry.”

  “Hello, Charlie.”

  “So it is you.”

  “You came a long way to find out.”

  “Pretty long.” Siringo couldn’t help but smile. The hunt would go on.

  “You want to shoot me, Charlie?”

  “Wouldn’t be very satisfying, that.” Siringo saw he still had his gun in his hand and slid it back under his jacket.

 
“What you got planned?”

  “Arrest you.”

  “Do it, then.”

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “Feel better?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any particular crime?”

  “Boy in Wyoming. Billy . . . something. But you knew that.”

  “Funny how no one remembers his name.”

  “Unless you’ve done something lately.”

  “You mean like to freshen my offense? Naw. Just him.” He didn’t consider his encounter with the Black Hand boys to be pertinent.

  “Well, that’s why I’m here.”

  They shared a quiet moment looking down at the well-lit street.

  Siringo pulled on the soft drop of his ear. “Something bothering me.”

  Longbaugh laughed in spite of himself. “Something I can help you with, Charlie?”

  “It’s just not like you. Shooting that boy.”

  “Maybe I’ve changed.”

  “Could be. Either way, I’m going to have to catch you.”

  “Expected nothing less.”

  “Of course, you were always faster than I was.”

  “Fast enough.”

  “On the other hand, we’re both older. Never can tell who’s deteriorated the most.”

  “Who told you I’d deteriorated?”

  Siringo smiled. That sense of humor he had always enjoyed when he was Charles Carter and they were outlaws together. Then he was serious again. “There’s something else.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “Back in the nineties, when Butch found out about me—what happened there?”

  “You got away.”

  “He had me cornered, had me dead to rights, and he was mad.”

  “Changed his mind.”

  Siringo watched him across the way. It was too far to read his eyes. He wondered why Longbaugh didn’t know. Or if he did know, why he wasn’t telling. But he clearly wasn’t going to get an answer tonight. Still, he hated mysteries.

  Siringo changed the subject. “What if I get you in a corner. You going to shoot it out?”

  “There is that possibility.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Ask the sheriff’s boy.”

  “Wish I could.”

  Longbaugh nodded thoughtfully. “So do I.”