Playing at Pretend

Butch was wearing somebody else's hat, striped suspenders, his well-tied cravat knocked askew with a purposefully rakish air, and a mustache. "Hullo, milady," he said when she opened the door. His voice was curiously muffled, probably because of the mustache. His eyes widened in affrontery when she had the gall to guffaw; when she appeared to be laughing too hard to let him in, he stepped forward without waiting for an invitation, and bustled her aside, chuffing her into the corner at close quarters and closing the door. He leaned back against it and gave her a bright, vital grin.

"How goes it?"

"Does it come off?" she asked, finally getting ahold of herself, stepped towards him and set about finding out. He fended her off, holding her at arms length.

"This isn't funny, Etta," he informed her, and she belied the claim by shrieking with renewed laughter. The mustache hid the twitching of his lips but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable. "I thought maybe you'd mistake me for Sundance."

"Never," she swore, grinning at him. "Never have, and I never will. Now. What's going on, if you don't mind telling me?"

"In a minute. He isn't here, is he?"

She sobered immediately, the undercurrent of worry surging to life again. It was never very far away, even when Sundance was there, asleep in her bed or critiquing her closet or eating her food. "No. I thought he was with you."

"He was, he was." He made a dismissive gesture, both hands. "He just isn't anymore. We split up after the last— he's got the bulk of the money, of course— managed to talk me into thinking its his turn."

She laughed, this time with relief, and put a shaking hand to her forehead, turned away from him. "I guess you need to stay and wait for him?"

"I'm sure he'll show up eventually. And— if it's not too much trouble." That odd bit of formality back in his voice, as though he was always two words away from calling her "ma'am," but his eyes were quite direct. Quite intimate. They'd known each other a long time, with the efficiency that came from never being romantic and the messiness that came from always being friends.

"Why the mustache?" she reminded him, without answering the question, since it didn't really need to be asked.

"Do the people in this town know you?"

"Know me?"

"Very well, I mean. See you around a lot."

"Well, I'm teaching at the school, now. But being new around here— I try to keep—"

"So they wouldn't know if you were married, or getting married?"

"What are you—" She stared at him then, a dawning fear in her mind. "Did Sundance say anything—"

"No, no," he did the hand-waving thing again. "Not to me." Then his eyes hardened. "Did he to you?"

"No!" A vociferous denial. Butch relaxed. "No, I mean— it's just, you said, so that's why I asked."

"Right." He gazed at her narrow-eyed for a minute, then grinned. "It's nothing to do with that, anyway. It's about hiding."

"Hiding?"

He gestured at the mustache, and this time she got it. "Oh. Hiding. Hiding from—"

That grin again. "You need to ask?"

"I guess not. Can't you be my brother or something?"

"I was your brother last time," he informed her, fishing for something in the depths of his pocket. It proved to be a ring, and he took her hand and slid it on, without ceremony, glancing up at her. "Time to expand our repertoire, Etta."

She didn't bother to ask, because she knew. He wouldn't be doing this if Sundance were here. Sundance would be doing this if Sundance were here; and Butch would be hiding in a closet, or pretending to be Sundance's illegitimate son, or a half-wit brother. But since Sundance isn't here, and Butch is, there wasn't a lot of point in discussing it. She twisted the ring around her finger to make it secure. It fit very well, as though he'd gotten it for her. She glanced at him.

"Have an explanation for this one?"

"Her name was Nellie," he expounded imperturbably. "It didn't work out."

"Oh? And why's that?"

He spread his arms wide, a silly and self-deprecating grin on his face. "You need to ask?"

"I suppose not." She held her hand out, looked the ring over thoughtfully. "Mrs. Cassidy. Mrs. Butch Cassidy."

"Smith," he corrected. "Seems to make more sense to go by a fake name than to haul around my real moniker, if I'm trying to keep undetected."

"Smith?" She raised her eyebrows at him. "That's the best you could come up with?"

"John Jacob Jingleheimer." She exploded into laughter again. "It's a work in progress." And wasn't everything, with him? Wasn't he continually perfecting the art, the art of being Butch Cassidy, rough rider and hard drinker, smooth talker and bad dancer? She'd let him into her home because he came part and parcel with the Kid; but here he was on his own, his grin mirroring hers, casually insinuating himself into her household. If she didn't trust him so implicitly, she'd worry; as it was, she had the usual trouble trusting herself, and so she backed away from him, allowing him to move further in but farther away.

A three-room house in this town, two rooms bigger than any other she'd ever lived in, dimly lit and sparsely populated, unless Sundance was in town. She was used to sleeping alone, and didn't as a rule mind it. It fit her school-marm image to be unmarried; but, she supposed, she could pretend for a while. For as long as it took.

"Do you think you'll be followed?"

He shrugged slightly. "No telling. I've given the slip to so many people my instincts are in a rut. I've lost the feel."

She stepped back and he stepped forward, though he wasn't even looking at her now, but was looking around him, scrutinizing her scant possessions. "I find that hard to believe."

Butch swung his glance back to her, briefly, and grins brightly, like a match striking. "Believe it."

"How far behind are they?"

"No way of knowing. I came by horse, they're coming by train. A mite faster, but can't cut across country nearly so handy."

"I love horses," she said, "but I hate horse-riding. What did you do with the animal?"

"Loosed him a while back. Someone'll take care of him." She shook her head at this cavalier attitude, and he shook his head right back at her. "What do you do, if you won't ride a horse? Walk everywhere?"

"There's people in the village who have bicycles. I see them gliding along everywhere. I'd like to have one of them, someday."

"I'll bring you one," he promised, "whenever I can find one. So, this is the place, huh? Sit by the fire and knit—"

"Sit by the fire and make sure it doesn't burn the house down, more like," she said with a momentary chuckle. She turned, walked away from him, shaking her head. "Whoever lived here before I did didn't take care of the place. And Sundance says he'll clean out the chimney—"

"Well, he just don't like to get his hands dirty," Butch drawled. He put his own hands on his hips and looked around the room, nodding to himself. "Cozy. Clean. Well-kept. It'll do for our starter. White picket fence, decent barn, lots of space."

"The barn's not mine."

"Ours," he corrected her, with another grin flashing from beneath the mustache. "And that's alright. We don't keep no cattle anyhow. We're simple folk, just need a couple-a laying hens and a weed patch so we can feed our sixteen strapping children—"

She folded her arms and leaned back against the doorway of her bedroom. "Aren't you laying it on a little thick?"

"Alright," he amended, "we'll only have twelve kids."

She shook her head, but smiled. "It's getting late, and school starts early. I know you're used to sleeping in—"

"Are you implying that I'm a lazy no-good do-nothing bum? You're probably right. Anyway that's Sundance that sleeps till noon— I'm up with the sunlight, crowing with the rooster, chasing the cows." He stifled a yawn with one hand and pushed his stolen hat back with the other. "Just don't make too much noise when you fix my breakfast."

She threw a blanket at him. He didn't need a pillow.

Three hours later he slipped into bed beside her and covered her mouth with his hand, shushing her in an urgent whisper. Other than her initial gasp, she was absolutely silent and still; this was not a practice round, and Butch was not playing a joke on her. There was something wrong.

Through the window she saw light approaching, the swinging half-ghost light of a lantern in the dead of night. More than one, as much as three. There were voices as well, hushed and hurried; secretive voices, intent on a mission that could only be carried out in the dead of night. These weren't lawmen; they were bounty hunters. Her heart beat faster, and she wondered if Butch could feel it, as tight as his fingers were pinched about her jaw. He wasn't entirely at ease, himself; half leaning over her, his chest against her shoulder, she could feel his own heartbeat thundering straight through cloth and skin.

The voices were coming closer and it was evident they weren't going to simply go away. In the half-light that the lanterns threw, she could see Butch looking down at her; his frosty eyes glinted, granted a hellish light, but his face was impassive. He was steeling himself to make the play, to stand and lie.

He let his hand up gradually, and waited for her nod before he swung himself out of the bed. She followed, noting absently that he was dressed in his once-white long johns; he must have woken from the dead of sleep, she surmised, but surely he was at least anticipating that these men would show up—

Those instincts of his. She was rather grateful she didn't have any; jolting in panic out of sleep once in a blue moon was more than enough for her.

The knock on the door came loudly, the voices of the men now stilled. Butch smoothed his fingers down over his mustache, and reached for her hand. Their fingers twined, and she crouched close to his side. They were being the innocent married couple awoken in the night, but it wasn't all play, this fear.

"Who's there?" Butch called out. He changed his voice, made it lower and deeper and thicker, less quick, less vital; he was pretending to be Sundance, she thought.

"We'd have a word with you, mister," came the voice from behind the door.

"We're sleepin'," said Butch flatly. "Go away. Come back tomorrow."

"This is the law speaking," lied the voice. "Open up."

Honest and innocent citizens did not ignore the law. Butch glanced at Etta, and she nodded at him: that was the reason for all the pretending, after all, so they could fool the hunters to their faces. The mustache and the wife were both in place, and all Butch had to do was open the door.

So he did.

There were three men, just as she'd thought. They were tall and fairly nondescript; the light from the lanterns played upward and lent them a menacing air. Butch took a step back and settled his shoulders.

"Well?"

"We're lookin' for a fugitive from justice," growled the front man. "We've reason to believe he may have ended up in this vicinity."

Butch looked at each of the faces in turn; they were all impassive, and told Etta nothing. She hoped Butch was getting more than she was. "Who you looking for?" he demanded. She clutched onto his arm a little tighter and managed, with an effort, to look even more frightened.

"A dirty thief by the name of Butch Cassidy," said the front man. Butch looked thoughtful for a minute, squinting and tilting his head; he appeared to be mulling the information over in his mind. Finally he reached a decision.

"Never heard of him," he said, and made to close the door. The man stuck one large boot in to hold it, stepping forward into Butch's face.

"I've reason to believe you have."

"Reason," scoffed Butch. "What's reason got to do with it? What's it got to do with anything? You show up at a man's house at this ungodly hour of the night, disturb his peacefully-sleeping wife, and talk to me about reason? I don't care to hear about your reasons. So you can get off my property and back where you came from, and go look for him somewhere else. In the morning, when you won't bother anybody."

The men glanced to Etta and had the grace to look mildly embarrassed; the one in front tipped his hat. She nodded slightly and tried to look offended; it was difficult when she had this mad impulse to laugh. Butch always did that to her, gave her the giggles. It was because he was so bad at lying, and so good at getting into situations where he was forced to.

"Beg pardon, ma'am. But do you mind me askin'— where was your husband three days ago?"

She scoffed, imitating Butch as closely as she dared. "This louse? He wouldn't leave home unless it was burning down around his ears. He's worse than useless. I've got to work for our money, and he won't even clean the chimney out."

Butch turned to her, incredulously; offense was not hard to fake. "Easy there, woman. Not in front of company."

"Company?" she repeated, getting more into the role by the minute. "Men come looking because they think you're some outlaw, and you call them company? I wish you were an outlaw! Why, if you were half the man this Bill Cassidy is—"

"Butch," corrected Butch and the bounty hunter simultaneously.

"I don't care what his name is! After all the things you've put me through in five years of marriage—"

"Ah, now, honey—" he said, and that was all the warning she had before he'd leaned down to her and kissed her, hard and warm and real. It was brief— it couldn't be anything but, considering the facts and the circumstances— but she felt that she suddenly couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything until he allowed her to move again. He had to do something, something specific to give her permission; but she didn't know what, only knew that when he let her go and turned back to the men, she had suddenly lost the will to live a life of her own; and though she despised moping, weeping women who existed only to serve their menfolk, she also had a faint and distant glimmer of why they were what they were.

"Only thing I can do to get her to shut up," Butch said to the men semi-apologetically. "Now you can see you've upset her good and proper. So do you mind gettin' along now so me and the missus can go back to bed?"

The three men exchanged glances. Then, wordless, they turned and left, back where they'd come from; if not fully convinced, then at least distracted enough to let it go for the meantime. The swinging lanterns retreated, leaving Butch and Etta in the semi-darkness of the half-moonlit night. Butch turned to her with his wide, contagious grin.

"How about that! Some play, huh?"

That was it; what she needed, to be able to move again. She unwrapped herself from around his arm, stepped back away from him.

"Some play," she said, a bit listlessly.

Butch shook his head and closed the door firmly. "Didn't expect them to come after me this quick. Lucky for me I got to you first."

"Yes, it was, wasn't it." She stirred up the fire, to keep them both warm. Butch sat back down on the floor; the blanket, coiled in a haphazard pile, showed that this was where he'd been sleeping, before he awoke. Before he slipped into her bed.

"Guess you won't have to fake your wedding with the townsfolk after all." He looked mighty pleased with himself.

"Guess I won't." She was less happy about things. She started to walk towards her bedroom door. "Does this mean that I have to move again?"

"Oh, I don't think so." He settled down, laying his head back on his arms. "I reckon they'll give up the thought of coming back here, after the performance you pulled."

She stood silent for so long that Butch began to drift off to sleep; but he awoke just enough to hear, "I was good, wasn't I— at pretending?"

"Honey, you were the best," he told her, and then he was out.

Etta went back to bed by herself, and closed the door behind her.

She slept later than she should have, and when she emerged from her room it was to find the blanket neatly folded. So, she supposed, at least he hadn't been abducted in his sleep by persons unknown; at least wherever he was, it was by choice.

That didn't make it much better, that he left without saying goodbye.

She hurried to the school and spent the day dreaming, snapping out of it every so often to find herself going about business as usual. The children were no better or worse behaved than they habitually were. Life was no better or worse than it usually was. The heat that crept up behind her ears and invaded her skin every now and then, when she thought of Butch bending close, was nothing more than she was used to, in the course of things.

And when she got home, her doors were open and a cloud of smoke was billowing out.

She rushed into the main room to find Butch, in his trousers but with his shirt off, bending over hands on his knees and coughing fit to beat the band. He was soot-blackened almost to the point of being unrecognizable, his pale hair turned dark; his brilliant eyes stood out startlingly next to the dark smudges that covered his skin. He straightened up and grinned at her.

"I thought you left!"

"Don't sound so disappointed, now. I thought it'd be mighty rude of me to leave without a proper thank you, and since Sundance is worse than useless around the house, I figured—"

She held her books against her with both hands. "You cleaned the chimney out."

"I did." He glanced around him at the filthy living room, apologetically. "You're going to have to clean up the rest of the house now, but at least it won't burn down. Probably."

She stepped closer to him. "Butch. If you weren't so dirty, I'd hug you."

That grin again, strange in his newly darkened face. He reached out towards her, and she went very still, and let her eyes drift half-closed; he smudged all five fingers down her face and laughed.

"Who's dirty now?"

She leaned even closer to him, and they didn't hear the hoofbeats till they were right up close.

Then the door banged open, and Sundance was in the room.

"Don't tell me you're not glad to see me," he said.

They were readying to leave, and Etta sat outside on the porch, thinking and watching the sun go down.

She saw things for what they were, she supposed. Their friendships, and the something that was drawing her to Butch, while at the same time she could never not love Sundance. It was a pattern, a habit, that had always been easy to follow: sleep with Sundance, and play with Butch. She saw no reason that it had to change now, no matter what had transpired. She hadn't been unfaithful, in body or in mind, and as for in spirit— well, that was her own, and Sundance didn't even want it.

And the formality was gone from Butch's voice, now; they'd stepped over their last hurdle, plumbed their last unknown well, sought their last horizon. They'd done well for themselves.

She told herself that firmly.

Sundance kissed her goodbye on the mouth, firmly, lingeringly, and she knew that no matter what he said, or didn't say, he missed her when he wasn't there with her. Butch kissed her fondly on the cheek, and held her tightly for a few seconds, and she knew that no matter what he said, or didn't say, she wasn't the only one with that arcane and half-felt draw. That made it better, somehow, to know it wasn't one-sided. To know that she was not alone on unfriendly territory.

They mounted their horses, and while Sundance always favored a wordless farewell, Butch turned to her before they rode off.

"I won't forget," he said. "About the bicycle."

And there were other things, she thought, as she watched the two of them ride off into the sunset. There were other things that he would choose to remember. Other things he would choose to pretend had happened, instead of what had really transpired. That was enough, for now.

She got up at last, and went back into the house.