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Checkers wasn't Butch's fifth horse, nor even his tenth or twentieth. He knew this because he liked to listen to Butch when he was rambling on about this or that, places he'd been, schemes he'd dreamed up. Didn't seem to Checkers he was very good at any of 'em, because now here they were on a dusty trail, with both Butch and the Kid riding him, and Checkers' back about to break clean in the middle. He whickered in disgust and kicked up his hind feet a little, just so's they'd know, Checkers wasn't the kind of horse they were accustomed to. Not at all. Not those horses they could run into the dirt and leave standing on the trail to find their own water while Butch and Sundance moved on.
(Oh, yes. They were those kind of riders. Checkers knew the type. If you'd seen one outlaw, you'd seen them all.)
Sundance's hand came down to settle on his flank, nice and easy like, and patted him real gentle. "Easy there boy," he said, the most he'd said in two hours on the trail. Not a talker, that one. Not like old Butch, who never met a word he didn't feel like expressin'.
Neither of them knew that Checkers had a name, because they acquired him in the middle of the night from his comfortable stable amidst a lot of hollering and gunfire, and Checkers supposed that's how it went sometimes. One day you're pulling a wagon and a little boy is yanking at your mane; the next you're a no-name horse whose new owner never shuts up.
Sundance had nice hands. Butch thought so too. Not that he said so, but Checkers could tell about that kind of thing; Butch kept maneuvering himself into a position to get settle-down pats from Sundance every so often, and Sundance obliged.
There used to be a woman, early on; she'd feed him carrots and apples sometimes, and stroke his muzzle comfortingly, and whisper to him about green pastures and cities where the buildings blotted out the sun. Sounded nice to Checkers. The trail was so dusty and hot. But then she was gone, and it was just those two idiots, staring at each other as they saddled Checkers up, and then avoiding looking at each other on the trail.
It was a long day out under the sun, headed along a faint path in the endless brown and brush (and sometimes trees) around them. Not much of interest to recommend the surroundings, which was fine with Checkers because the last time there was something of interest, it resulted in the Kid shooting a rattler. (Checkers was not fond of snakes. And they were not fond of him, either.)
"This ain't sustainable," said Butch at one point, and Sundance made a sort of humming that might have meant he agreed, and could have meant he was just picking the last of the hard tack out of his teeth. (The Kid had tried to feed Checkers that biscuit, and Checkers had nipped him in response. He was no fool.)
They were quiet for a time, and then, "You can always go your own way, y'know. You always could," Butch said, for the tenth time in the last little while.
"Sure I can," the Kid agreed. "With one horse between us and not so much as five cents to contribute to its upkeep, much less buy or scrape up another."
"Aw," Butch said. He sighed. "I don't begrudge her the other horse."
Sundance made that agree-maybe noise again. And then they fell quiet, all the way up 'til dark, when Butch brought him to a halt by a clump of scrub, and a shallow creek.
"Good enough," the Kid pronounced, and swung himself down. Butch hopped down too, and they busied themselves with camp-things while Checkers found himself some respectable shrubbery to nibble. Between them they had some canvas, two bedrolls, one cup, some coffee grounds, a muddy book, one spare pair of trousers, a knife, a pan, a pocket watch, and the last of the hard tack.
Butch looked dubiously at the hard tack and the filthy handkerchief it had been wrapped in. Then he passed it over to Sundance, who threw it as hard as he could out into the wilderness.
"That thing's gonna kill some poor animal that happens across it." Butch pushed his hat back and squinted out after it.
"It'll still be there when you and me are dust," Sundance answered.
That left them with nothing to eat, because humans were afflicted with the inability to eat tasty grass. Checkers would have pitied them, but he was starting to worry that they might find him tastier than the hard tack, so he put some distance between them to get a drink from the creek.
Sundance walked out into the trees and a little while later, a gunshot startled Checkers; when the Kid got back, he had two rabbits by the ears. Without a word, Butch took one, Sundance took the other, and they got to skinnin' those rabbits quick, to get them on a spit over a small campfire. Butch got the cup of water warming, mashed up the coffee grounds into it, and they passed their brew back and forth.
"Well," Butch said, and then fell silent. Checkers supposed a belly full of rabbit was choking him up; they'd barely eaten in three days.
"Did you finally run out of things to think about? Out loud, I mean." Sundance took a sip from the cup, but his eyes were smiling over it.
"Hardy har har. I was pondering about respectability, and how overrated it is."
"How would you know? You've never actually tried it." Sundance passed the cup over.
"That is purely unfair. We went straight for three whole days! There was also that job in the mine, back in Argentina."
"Well, sure, if you can call four days underground before you snaked the payroll right outta the office an honest day's work."
"It was an honest four days' work," Butch said, glaring. Then he seemed to wilt a little. "All right, two and a half. Anyway, we've made it this far back north without surrendering to the impulse to rob anybody."
"We stole that," the Kid said, pointing at Checkers. "And the other one, too."
"Needs must, doesn't count, that's pure survival." Butch poked a stick in the fire. "Plus we had Etta to think about. She needed a fresh horse."
"Wherever she is now, I guarantee, she isn't thinking about us, because she wised up." The Kid lifted his cup toward the stars, and took a sip, then grimaced and threw the remainder in the fire. "Good for her, going on ahead. Took her long enough."
"This being excessively wanted is a bit of a situation," Butch said. "It does seem like a travesty that we can't do any of the things we're good at."
"Oh, yeah?" The Kid perked up at that. "Not too much seems to stop you from having opinions. You're good at that."
"I mean gambling," Butch said patiently. "And charming the knickers off the ladies."
"And stealing other people's money, and killing folks."
"Now you hold on a minute, that last part wasn't anything I wanted to do."
Sundance fixed Butch with a squint. "Turned out to be good enough at it, though, didn't you? A hidden talent, you might say."
"All right! Do you want me to admit it? I will! Bolivia was a mistake, a huge mistake. You happy?"
"Ecstatic."
They exchanged what Checkers' old owner used to call a speaking look, which in Checkers' experience only meant they'd be yelling otherwise.
"We could stick around here. Wherever here is." Butch poked at the ground. "Or keep going north. Back to Wyoming, north of there maybe. The Dakotas."
"And do what, exactly? Every lawman from here to wherever is still after us. There ain't a hole deep enough, Butch."
"Maybe we lay low. Go straight again. Find us some small town. Do some ranchin'."
"What was all that about how ranchin' is only for the young?"
"If you don't like what I'm proposin', you can go-"
"-my own way, I know, I know. But there's one horse," Sundance said, flicking his hand at Checkers. Then he squinted at Checkers, and corrected himself. "Half a horse."
Checkers whickered and kicked up some dirt toward the campfire, which made Butch grin. "He's a smart one."
"That's why I like him. He's scrawny, but he's got sass." The Kid pulled the collar of his jacket up and hunched down into it, staring into the fire. Butch stared at Sundance for a time, then at Checkers, who supposed he looked pretty much the same as he had every moment he'd been with them, so no telling why Butch suddenly found him so interesting.
"I'm just sayin', if we want to save up for passage to Australia, we're gonna have to do something respectable in the meantime. Maybe a store? Nobody would expect notorious bank robbers to clerk a store. All those mining towns, there must be someplace someone wants dry goods." Butch stabbed a finger at the Kid. "Not a saloon, though. You'd end up shooting every other patron in the place."
"Oh, I'm the one who's quick on the trigger?" The Kid tipped his hat back. "And how'd we get back to Australia, anyway?"
"Well you never said no, and that's as good as yes in my book."
"I never do tell you no. That's half my problem. The other half is the lack of a horse."
"Why is that, anyway?"
"Because the other horse went lame," the Kid said, so long-sufferingly. Checkers had to agree. It wasn't even that long ago, and Butch wasn't that old; he should've been able to bring that to memory.
"No, you idiot, I mean, why don't you tell me no?" Butch sat forward to see the Kid's face better in the flickering light.
"Don't have to. We talk things over, it comes out right."
"Sure, but." Butch broke off, and then he got a look like he was figuring something out. Maybe remembering how the horse went lame. That would be Checkers' guess. Then, slowly, a little sly: "What if I was to say I think it's good Etta left us?"
"Left me," the Kid corrected him.
"Uh-huh. And what if I was to say I think you and me, friend, we're on a path?"
"I'd say, start making some sense."
"I'm workin' up to that," Butch said slowly.
"Let me help you," the Kid said. He poked Butch in the chest. "What you're trying to say is that we're in this together. All the way. North or south, ranching or sodbusting, whatever the hell fool thing you're dreaming up when you start spouting nonsense." When he stopped poking Butch in the chest, Butch lifted a hand up, pressed his palm over that sore place, and Sundance sighed. "But let's get one thing straight. I was not made for stayin' in one place, or honest work, so I'm not promising I'm going to start now."
Now Butch was just staring, which Checkers' old owner found to be impolite. Good thing he wasn't a ten-year-old, or Butch might be in for a whippin'.
"Who knew you were so eloquent?" Butch asked.
"Not you, that's for damn sure. Since you're accustomed to doing all the talking."
"You never complained before."
"True." The Kid handed Butch the empty cup. "I said, I'm in this all the way."
"Yeah, I heard you." Butch took hold of the handle; Sundance didn't let loose of the cup. They sat frozen that way, eyes locked, long enough Checkers started to worry they were going to fight over the cup, too. Seeing as how they only had one of most things. He'd seen babies with better control over their possessions.
"I ain't refined," Butch said suddenly, which Checkers felt ought to be pretty obvious. "I ain't pretty, neither. Got smart covered, though."
"Told you once," Sundance said. "I'm not picky."
"That's for damn sure." Butch cleared his throat.
"Point is, even if farming didn't require a person to stay in one place for a considerable amount of time, I still don't know how to farm."
"But I do know how to ranch. And what about the dry goods idea? And what I was drivin' at earlier, about the Dakotas -- there's that place up there, on the run-out claim you won from Bert Carlisle in a poker game, remember?"
"That one room shack with no roof?"
"Got to start somewhere." Butch's voice softened down, the way he talked to Checkers sometimes when he was fixing to share an apple with him. "One room's all we need, anyway. A table, a couple chairs. Get us a cast iron pan and a coffeepot and it's all comin' up roses, Kid."
"And a bed," the Kid said, and that purely made Butch cough and clear his throat.
They were quiet, and then the Kid said, "There's that little problem of income, and you having that recognizable face."
"I'm not the handsome one everybody wants to hang drawings of," Butch said, scowling.
Sundance turned sideways, looked at Butch, a long look. "Debatable," was all he said, and that made Butch cough and harrumph some more. Checkers was starting to question whether he'd live to get all the way up to Wyoming, his lungs were so pitiful.
For a fella who had such nice hands, Sundance seemed to have some trouble figuring out where to put 'em when Butch got too near. There they were, practically merged together by the fire, rabbit entrails smoking in the embers and coyotes howling off in the distance somewhere, and Sundance's hands just wouldn't settle. A knee, a shoulder, touch to the side and then away, like Sundance was the skittish horse instead of Butch. Finally he seemed to figure it out, hand cupped 'round the back of Butch's neck to draw him in even closer.
"Ain't this somethin'," Butch said, quiet-like, when Sundance let him go.
"Oh and one more thing," Sundance said. "Don't know how to build anything, either. So don't expect me to get a roof up on that shack."
"Can't farm, can't ranch, won't stay put, can't nail a shingle - what the hell are you good for, then?" Butch demanded.
"I expect you'll figure that out. Sooner or later." This time, Sundance seemed better at finding a spot to rest his hands. Like most other things, Checkers supposed, handling a horse or a human, it just took practice.
A little while later, after they fought some more about things like inventory and boot black, and Butch kicked up a dust cloud storming off to wash his face and get a drink (and nearly broke his damn fool neck tripping over a rock in the dark), and Sundance gave him an earful about no he goddamn sure was not going to go by Harry for chrissakes don't you know I acquired a nickname for a fuckin' reason, and Butch retorted some about how as names go that was a hell of a lot more passable than LeRoy, Checkers thought they might be near enough to exhausted to call it a night and turn in.
He was near to dozing off himself around the time they started wrestling around on their bedrolls. Checkers, who had thought surely they'd argued all the fight out of them by that point, had had enough. He was doing all the work that was getting done out of the three of them, and he needed his beauty sleep. (That's what his old missus used to say, though whether any type of rest would beautify Checkers was debatable.)
He moved around to the other side of the tree so they could carry on without him.
"Where's that horse goin'?" Butch said, his voice rough.
"What do you care?" Sundance asked, kind of tender at the edges for such a belligerent tone.
"Well we've only got the one."
"Better be glad about that. Seein' as how if there were two, I could always go my own way."
"That's what I keep tellin' you," Butch said, sounding mighty smug for a fella who had just been pinned in a wrestling match.
They'd stopped making a lick of sense, so Checkers whickered quietly and drifted off, thinking about stubborn little boys with sticky hands and joyful faces, filled with the wonder of bein' alive.