Read Sundance for Free Online

approached the hiding spot. It was clean and dry, a thin layer of dirt underfoot that showed no footprints, and wherever possible he walked on smooth rock to keep it that way. He found the place and set down the lantern and reached within a crevice between large rocks, and for a terrible moment thought that either someone had found it or he was in the wrong place. But he reached deeper, his shoulder pressed hard against the cold rock, patting the ground until his fingers touched fabric and he was relieved to pull out the package. He unwrapped his old oiled canvas duster to reveal the Civil War haversack given to him as a gift by Etta’s uncle. He took a moment to appreciate it. Her uncle had been a high-ranking Union officer, so it was a fine one. The haversack itself was crafted of good leather, and its single shoulder strap was of the same leather. The flap was buckled with a belt-style closure, and he fed the tongue up through the frame of the buckle, pulled the prong from the punch hole, then lifted the flap to reveal the contents. It was all still there, the bills and coins. Fourteen years, undisturbed. The bulk of his share of the Wilcox train job in 1899, hidden in a rare moment of foresight when he had also thought to sew coins into his saddle. He knew Butch would never have touched it, no matter how quickly Butch went through his own share, but the others were less righteous. He thought again of Butch, buried somewhere in the ground of South America, and, being in a place where they had often been together, his heart was hollow with grief. While these moments now came rarely, when they did come they brought on aswift, chest-clenching sadness, and he paused until the ache began to ease. After a time, he went back to his work.
    Under the haversack, wrapped in a smaller piece of oilcloth, was one of his guns, a classic Colt Peacemaker. This was the brother to the one stolen from him at Rawlins. He spent some minutes wiping it, admiring it, reassembling it, and loading it. He unloaded the cheap revolver and was about to break it down when he heard a sound and knew he wasn’t alone.
    He spun on instinct and underhanded the old gun at the face of the man standing there, calling loudly “Catch!” The man dropped his own weapon and his lantern, and before the gun hit him in the nose, caught it with both hands. The man’s lantern broke and the flame went out, so that only Longbaugh’s lantern gave light.
    â€œHell and tarnation!” said the man.
    Longbaugh strode past him, picked the man’s gun off the ground, and saw that the weapon was unloaded and a piece of junk. He handed it back so that the man now held two useless shooters. He brought his own lantern close to the man’s cleanly shaved face and recognized him.
    â€œYou were the cook,” said Longbaugh.
    â€œAnd you—hey, holy—it can’t be, but—it’s
you
, ain’t it!?” The cook’s expression was incredulous. He shivered as if he was talking to a ghost.
    â€œI need to go someplace people don’t recognize me,” Longbaugh said to himself.
    â€œAin’t this the damnedest thing, I mean, ain’t it? You’re really standing here, breathin’ and all, you ain’t a spirit or nothin’.” He reached out to poke Longbaugh as if to prove he was made of flesh, then thought better of it. “Guess you’re a might older, and I reckon you shaved your mustache. Damn, I thought, I mean we all thought, I mean, everybody, damn, Kid, you’re supposed to be dead!”
    Longbaugh moved back to his gear, relieved to see the haversack flap in place, the contents hidden from the cook’s prying eyes. He did not remember the cook’s name. Howard. His name was Howard. No, not Howard.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œWell, I reckon I followed you. Got a little lost in the tunnels back there before I saw your light.”
    He made his question clearer.