Sundance

by David Fuller

Siringo said nothing, but his gun did not waver.

  “I know you don’t want her to die.”

  Siringo said nothing.

  “Make you a deal.”

  “Give it up, Harry, what’ve you got for barter?”

  “My word of honor.”

  Siringo angled his head and narrowed his eyes.

  “Let me go. Let me save her. Then, on my word of honor, I will turn myself in to you.”

  “You either think I’m awfully green or—”

  “You know me better than that, Charlie.”

  “Do I?”

  “I came here for her. Why do you think I didn’t run when I found out you were after me?”

  “You should have.”

  “You know why I didn’t. Moretti is a vindictive bastard, and I don’t have a lot of time if I’m going to stop him.”

  Siringo thought and then thought a little more, and Longbaugh waited for him in silence, because he had played his hand and he had nothing else.

  Siringo rubbed the soft drop of his ear. “What happened with Butch, Harry?”

  “What, you mean back in the nineties? That day at Hole in the Wall? He let you go.” Longbaugh felt it coming then, the shift inside Siringo.

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “If I have to tell you, you’ll just think I’m desperate to get to the Armory Show, which I am.”

  “Humor me.”

  Longbaugh cleared all the emotion out of his voice and spoke plainly. “Because I told him to.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You were my friend, and I didn’t want Butch to kill you. I thought you should be alive. Butch had never killed anyone before, and if he killed you, that would have made him into a different man. So I told him I knew Charlie Siringo from before and it wasn’t you.”

  The gun wavered. Siringo showed the smallest hint of a smile, having the mystery solved about why he was still around to live his life.

  A wash of relief raced through Longbaugh and he caught a full breath for the first time since Siringo walked into the room.

  “I must be some giant chump, buying all this.” Longbaugh saw that he had believed him, but let him enjoy his tirade. “I must be the biggest dupe saphead lawman on the whole goddamned turd-steaming, maggot-licking, pus-infested East Coast.” Siringo kicked an overstuffed chair that landed on its side. “Goddamnit, Harry, you sorry-assed son of a bitch, I still have to take you in, but I know what it means when you give your word. I know you’ll do what you say. Go on, get out of here, go save your wife, if you can, but I want you back and in custody by the end of the night. By the end of the night.”

  18

  Great clouds rolled in off the ocean, their heads a high pile, their swollen bellies purple, chasing the setting sun into a clear sky to the west. A momentary brilliance at his back, gone before he turned his head. He waited for the drumbeat of thunder, which came more quickly than he had anticipated. His chance had come, risked on this one throw, and the small voice inside him wondered if it could be real, if he had any true hope of finding her on a night so forbidding.

  He ran from Moretti’s building down the long blocks and stopped when he reached the Bowery, fighting for breath with knees supporting hands, faced with a statue of traffic locked motionless in both directions. Any available trolley or cab had nowhere to go, and would be trapped in there for some time. He was a long way from the Armory.

  He scanned the street and ran through his options. Speed had to be balanced with intelligent decisions, and he tried to force himself to think clearly. He wasn’t sure where the Armory was on Lexington, which side of the street. He didn’t know that area well, but he tried to picture the best route. North from here, certainly, and he remembered the Bowery running into Fourth Avenue, which would turn into Park. He thought then he’d be a block from Lexington. Still, a long way, and Hightower had a head start. How best to get there, on foot or by vehicle? A long way on foot, and realistically, how long could he run and still have enough left to do what he had to do once he got there? He knew he needed to arrive not just on time but ahead of time to know the field.

  The jammed motorcars and trolleys were of no help to him. He could start off on foot and hope the traffic would break up farther north, but as he looked in that direction, he saw no end to it. Then his eyes fell on an empty delivery wagon with two horses in harness. He moved for it along a crooked route between irritated, trembling automobiles.

  The wagon’s driver, a veteran of inert traffic, turned when he picked up unusual peripheral motion and saw a man running at him. The wagon driver’s entire body shifted back in his seat as the running man looked directly at him and dug in his pocket for something.

  Longbaugh made sure to approach at a wide angle so as not to spook the horses. As he reached the delivery wagon, he tried to press money in the driver’s hand. “For your horse.”

  Hands in the air, avoiding the dollars. “I done nothing to you, mister.”

  “I’m serious here.” He remembered how Prophet had tried to force his writing on The Masses’ editor and how the editor’s hands had gone up in just the same way.

  “My horse, he not is for sale, and if you think you buy for this, you gone crazy.”

  “Not buying. Renting.” He grabbed the driver’s hand, brought it down and slapped the money into his palm.

  “What, you are asking for the rig?”

  “No, the horse. Him, that one there. I’m going to Twenty-fifth and Lexington.”

  “Armory Show, sure.”

  Apparently all of New York knew about the show. Except, of course, for him.

  “Follow me once this breaks up and he’ll be waiting. That’s all you have to do. For that much money.”

  “Not one little chance in a million.” The driver was, however, moved by the money already in his fist. He considered how to hold on to it. “But for this money, you can borrow the other.”

  “The mare? She’s ready to drop.” He looked at her uncertainly, a liver chestnut, the color of scalded coffee.

  “Rig cannot get over there with her only as puller.”

  “Your rig is empty.”

  The driver shrugged, knowing he had the upper hand. “Wagon is heavy.”

  He looked at the massive snarl that stretched both directions and saw no other options. Meanwhile, time refused to pause. “Agreed.”

  The driver sat forward. Perhaps it had been too easy. “Just wait now, how I am knowing she will be where you say?”

  “I am no horse thief, sir.” His foot tapped the street, his fingers drummed the side of the wagon, and he waited aggressively, pretending not to show his frustration.

  The driver studied his eyes. “No. No, I see that.”

  Now Longbaugh worked quickly, releasing her from the harness. He pulled her out, slightly swaybacked, wrapping the reins around his left hand.

  He put a hand out slowly so as not to surprise her, and rubbed down her neck. She responded more quickly than he had expected. He kept peripheral contact to create a dominion with her. Her color was really more like a rich, dark brown. Perhaps he had underestimated her.

  The driver watched, rapt. “What is this? She is old nag.”

  Longbaugh ignored him, speaking directly to her. “All right, here we go, here we are. What do you think? You have enough for this? You ready?”

  Damned if the horse didn’t lean into him.

  He stepped on the side of the wagon and pressed his body against her flank, letting her grow accustomed to him, but time was precious and he couldn’t afford an extended introduction. Before he thought she was ready, he hoisted his leg over her back and sat. He hadn’t ridden bareback since probably some time in the ’90s. But she was alert and patient. Crooked tines of lightning jabbed the sky, as if the rivers clenched t
o snap white rods up into clouds, making the whole island a silhouette. He feared her reaction to the sudden loud thunder, but she did not flinch.

  “Got an apple or sugar cube?”

  The driver made a face but took a carrot from somewhere inside his coat. It was firm, and Longbaugh put it in his pocket.

  She responded under his knees as he turned her, and they slipped into a gap between vehicles and were off.

  Drops touched his forehead and he cursed the coming rain, then mentally tried to negotiate with it to hold off so she could safely run the cobblestones. He thought he would beat Hightower to the Armory, but rain was not his ally. So far, the drops were isolated and the sky held its water. The Bowery continued in snarl for blocks as they rode north. He let the horse have her head and she responded eagerly, strutting high for a proud moment as if stretching her reality, then lowering her nose and going. He wondered if he had entered her dream, her last best chance to cut loose, remembering her filly days when running was her way. In that moment she knew speed and freedom, and to anyone who happened to be watching, she proved she had once been something special. His heart swelled alongside her pride, the wind strong in his face, and he bent down close to her neck, with her mane snapping against his cheek and forehead, and he roared inside for his own freedom. They rode north as one, weaving back and forth around stopped motorcars in the middle of the street, the white faces of awed drivers staring out their windows.

  As he rode, some other part of him climbed back into his being, and he was the Kid again, riding full-out, his youth and determination revived. The early days were with him now, when he’d had no nickname and no plan, when he had robbed a bank before he knew any better and had run away with an idiot’s desperation, the incredible exhilaration of a pocketful of stolen money once he knew he’d gotten away with it, and now his past continued to roll with him, the middle years riding alongside him, the confident days when he knew how to plan, and his plans worked to perfection with stopped trains and stowed horses and the faces of the posse as they realized they’d been outplayed, and finally the time with Butch was with him, too, the one man who truly understood what it was like, riding by Longbaugh’s side on the outlaw trail, basking in the warmth of a true friend, and all of those memories buoyed him as he raced above the city streets on a game horse with rain threatening, the thrill quivering in his bones, the joy making thunder in his chest and lightning in his hips, and for that one small moment he believed, because he owned both the past and the future just as he owned this moment. If this was all, if this was his last ride—and he would keep his word to Siringo—then it was enough.

  Maybe he would figure a way to go out in a fit of glory.

  The rain continued to hold off, and they ran through a heavy cloud that misted his face. He watched her hooves land sturdily on the slick street. She would fly if he let her, and he gave her rein. Traffic broke as they thundered north, forcing them to slow to safely maneuver around motorcars that couldn’t be trusted, swerving and braking. At Twenty-first Street he turned her right, toward the East River, for Lexington Avenue.

  The block was dim after the bright Park Avenue, and an automobile sped directly at them, claiming the middle of the street, as if offended that some other species dared share the road. Longbaugh slowed the horse, and watched the headlights grow, lighting up the horse’s chest, and he saw there was no mistake, the new Speedwell Roadster was coming directly at them, and he guided the horse to the sidewalk. He kicked out as the motorcar passed, a lucky heel wrecking the huge headlight bolted to the fancy fender. The driver braked to a squealing halt and rose over the steering wheel in a boil, brandishing his fist and cursing him. Longbaugh saluted him with two fingers off the brim of his hat, then urged the horse with his knees back out into the street to carry on. The Speedwell made a six-point turn behind him, its engine whining to catch up, but by the time the motorcar got close, Longbaugh had reached the end of the block and was turning the horse left up Lexington Avenue.

  Lexington was another unexpected jam, this one caused by the exhibit. Traffic was drawn to the bright lights trained on the Armory a few blocks north on the left-hand side. Despite the frenzied flashing and the booming thunder, the rain still held off. The Speedwell revved hard and was unable or unwilling to brake in time, bashing the passenger side of a stopped vehicle and ramming it sideways into motorcars in the next lane. Now the furious driver had a new set of problems. Longbaugh left him and his rage behind.

  The 69th Regiment Armory was ablaze with electric light, vehicles drawn like iron filings to the magnet entrance, where a man in a faux uniform yelled indecipherably through a megaphone in an attempt to enforce order. Patrons slid off backseats onto dry sidewalks, leaving the street mess to their servants, strutting under wide umbrellas that were thus far unnecessary, walking under the building’s projecting gun bays, then climbing stairs beneath a great arched entrance under a rectangular sign, INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION, MODERN ART. Longbaugh slid off the horse’s back and guided her on the sidewalk to Twenty-fifth Street. Twenty-fifth was busy as well, with private automobiles lined up to wait. He knew time was critical, but he walked her to cool her down, praising her fine run. Chauffeurs stood in small groups, smoking as they gossiped, braving the threat of rain with collars turned high and hats pulled low. A few cleaned the insides of their vehicles, dropping trash in the gutter. One or two wiped down their windscreens and hoods while gazing at the flashing sky, knowing their time was wasted. As she cooled, he fed her the carrot.

  While walking her, he saw Loney Wisher, Fidgy’s man, come out of a side door of the Armory near Park Avenue. It started to rain hard just as Wisher slipped out the exit. Wisher wore not only a gaudy waistcoat—vest, Longbaugh corrected himself—but he was wearing new shoes. Wisher put up his collar and braved what was suddenly a downpour as he ran to a parked vehicle about three-quarters of the way back toward Lexington. He nodded to the chauffeur, who moved away. Wisher opened the back door of the vehicle himself and ducked inside, but he left the door wide.

  Longbaugh led the horse alongside the building to a place where she would be dry and protected, and wrapped the reins around a pipe. He looked at the vehicle’s open door and knew Wisher was waiting for someone.

  It was a moment before he saw a man come out of the shadows in the hard rain, then he recognized the oversized coat. Prophet did not look around as he approached the open vehicle door. He also did not enter. He stood in the rain, although it appeared that Wisher was inviting him inside. Prophet passed an envelope to Wisher. After a moment, Wisher passed back a wrapped package that was the shape and size of a small batch of dynamite cartridges. Prophet slid the wrapped packet into his large side pocket, the one that had held his folded article on the killer of McKinley. Longbaugh guessed from the size and shape that he had purchased half a dozen cartridges. Ordinarily, the sale of dynamite to a civilian would have alarmed him, but the only person this man was likely to blow up was himself. Prophet turned and went back the way he had come, lost from sight in the dark, beyond a curtain of rain highlighted by a streetlamp. Wisher stayed inside the vehicle a moment longer, then was out, closing the back door, racing the long block back to the side exit, passing Longbaugh, standing out of the rain, and disappearing inside the Armory.

  “You’ll be all right here.” He rubbed her cheek in appreciation. In the cooldown she had become an old horse again.

  He moved after Wisher and checked the side exit door. Locked. Apparently during that time, Wisher had left it wedged open. Longbaugh turned to the front and, keeping close to the building to avoid the rain, hurried down the long block and around the corner onto Lexington, to join the other guests entering through the front.

  The rain offered him cover as he moved from umbrella to umbrella, slipping between well-dressed invitees, pretending to be part of a large group as they flashed their invitations. He climbed stairs, shook rain from his coat and hat, and entered. A hallway led thr
ough this part of the building to the main exhibit, just ahead. He scanned faces, always looking for her, for Hightower, for Moretti, and now for Wisher.

  He reached the exhibition hall and stopped just inside the entrance, with the entire show laid out before him. The Armory had a massive ground floor, and rose two stories to a high steel-and-glass arched ceiling that they had tried to disguise. He looked up and back at a great staircase that led to the second floor behind him.

  He returned his attention to the main room. The designers of the exhibition had added decorations in an attempt to manage the size, so that the art would not be quite so overwhelmed by the setting. They had dressed the entrance with tall pines, and hung countless yellow streamers from the middle of the ceiling that fell in a soft curve out to the side walls to create a tentlike canopy. A military band played in the balcony, forcing the spectators to talk loudly.

  He looked at the exhibit. The center of the first gallery, Gallery A, was dominated by a large white sculpture of a man with a knee down, the other knee angled, as if he was attempting to stand, holding up something that hung over his upper body. It might have been a sculpture of Atlas bearing up the world, except whatever he held was the wrong shape to be a globe. Longbaugh approached and circled it, and saw it was a depiction of a young man on a knee with an older man folded over him, embracing him, welcoming him, smothering him. He read the card, George Gray Barnard, Prodigal Son. Smaller marble sculptures surrounded it. A limited number of paintings were hung in this gallery on what were temporary walls covered in burlap that had been set up for the exhibit.

  Beyond Gallery A, more temporary walls created a beehive of smaller galleries that organized the art and maximized wall space. Many spectators were gathered there, but not so many as to make it hard to move freely. The line of visitors coming in the entrance did not slow, and it would become significantly more crowded as the evening wore on. It would be difficult to find Etta, but no less difficult for Moretti.

  A breezeway at the back of the first gallery on the right-hand side led him into not a rectangular gallery but one shaped like an octagon. He searched the faces of the spectators, and when he recognized no one, he took a moment to see what the excitement was about. The paintings leapt off the walls, jumped and grabbed him, shook and taunted and astounded him, the color, the design, the subject matter, the raw difference, the lack of indifference. The names of the artists were equally strange and he wondered how to pronounce Matisse, Gauguin, Manet, Picasso. He had little experience with art; any “important” paintings he had encountered generally portrayed some idealized realism, landscapes of the early West lit by orange-red sunsets with heroic clouds, implausible mountains, and unlikely cliffs. These were something else entirely, many of them almost childlike in their vision, yet they contained subject matter that was not for children. Confronted by colors and shapes that his own dreams could not have conjured, he was repelled and fascinated. New York had taught hard lessons of modernity and changed the impossible into the everyday; here the same thing was happening in the art, as if the act of looking scraped new passages in his brain. He backed out into the relatively placid Gallery A with the comparatively tame American sculpture. The father with his prodigal son was looking quite congenial. The explosive European paintings inhabited a hostile landscape where the natives spoke all at once, loudly, in rude tongues.