Bonnie and Clyde- A Twenty-First-Century Update

by James R Knight

  Floyd Hamilton had left his car in a garage in Corsicana, Texas, so Bonnie and Clyde took him back to get it. Floyd and his wife were to visit Raymond that Sunday afternoon and set the final details. During the visit, Floyd confirmed that the guns were placed where they had agreed, and Ray confirmed that the convict squads were working in the place they expected. In the summer, they would have been in the fields, but now, in the middle of the winter, they were cutting wood and clearing brush. The break would happen at the large brush piles near the road. Floyd met the others later Sunday evening and told them everything was set. Hamilton then drove back to Dallas to wait, but Bonnie and Clyde kept Mullins with them. He wasn’t going to be allowed out of their sight until the break was over. They drove the roads around Eastham and, during the night, took turns sleeping in the car. About 6:30 or 7:00 in the morning on Tuesday, January 16, the three of them stopped their car on Calhoun’s Ferry Road near the edge of some woods. It was time.16

  Eastham Prison, as it is today.

  —Courtesy the Hugh Kennedy/Pat McConal collection

  The original plan seems to have been for Raymond Hamilton to escape with Ralph Fults and two other prisoners. As mentioned before, Ralph was unavoidably detained at the Huntsville Unit and asked that Hilton Bybee be included in his place. He and Fults had been together in a failed escape attempt in Wichita Falls. Bybee was from Cottle County, Texas, and was in the army when he first got in trouble. After he left the service, he and his brother Otis robbed a fellow of $104 and then, just for fun, Hilton shot him between the shoulder blades as he ran away. Hilton managed to avoid the death penalty, but, due to other crimes, he was now serving two concurrent life terms plus twenty-five years.17

  The other two were old friends of Clyde’s and were already in place at Eastham. One of them was twenty-one-year-old Henry Methvin from Louisiana. Methvin was serving ten years for assault with the intent to murder and theft of a 1929 Ford worth about $350.18 Henry was called “Scar Neck” because of an old ax wound and was known at Eastham as a real “Tush Hog,” which, in the convicts’ language, meant a hard case, or tough guy.19 The other member of the original escape party was an inmate who, in many ways, was the opposite of Raymond Hamilton. His name was Joseph Conger Palmer.

  Joe Palmer was a veteran con. He was currently serving his fourth stretch in prison (three in Texas, one in Oklahoma) during the last twelve years and had already escaped from Eastham once before. In September 1933, Palmer stole a guard’s horse and rode away, Old West style. He stayed at large for one day and was recaptured. For this, he officially received thirty lashes.20 Given the culture at Eastham, he surely received some unofficial attention from the guards as well.

  Convicts in the field at Eastham Prison Farm Camp One, near the site of the escape, with mounted guard in the background. The prisoners in stripes are escapees or parole violators. This picture was taken by Hugh Kennedy about two months after Clyde Barrow’s Eastham Raid.

  —Courtesy the Hugh Kennedy/Pat McConal collection

  Where Ray Hamilton was twenty years old and in the best of health, Joe Palmer was eleven years older and a sick man. Joe suffered from asthma, had a bleeding ulcer, and may have had tuberculosis as well.21 Where Ray was known as a braggart and prone to bend the facts to suit his purpose, Joe talked very little. Ray was not respected or trusted by most of his peers, but Joe Palmer was admired, at least as a man of “nerve and ability,” even by Lee Simmons, the manager of the prison system.22 Hamilton liked to brag about what a bad man he was and about his outlaw friends. Palmer endured a lot at the hands of the guards because he often fell behind in the field work. He kept his temper, but he never forgot. If you made an enemy of Ray Hamilton, you would have to watch your back. Joe Palmer was more likely to bide his time, then look you in the eye, and kill you. Raymond Hamilton was a somewhat obnoxious but gifted bank robber, car thief, and escape artist, but Joe Palmer was a truly dangerous man.

  Tuesday morning, January 16, 1934, started out like most other mornings for Hugh Kennedy, one of the other prisoners at Eastham. He had stacked wood the day before and expected to do the same that day. He had no idea that a break was planned, but he would wind up in the middle of it. The trustee had brought in the two .45s and given them to Hamilton the day before. Joe Palmer faked an asthma attack, which allowed him to stay in bed on Monday and hide the guns in his mattress. Ray picked up one during the night, and now there remained only one little detail to arrange.23

  Hugh Kennedy was the lead man of Plow Squad One, assigned to Guard Olin Bozeman. This squad contained all the escape plan members except Ray Hamilton. He was in Squad Two, guarded by Mr. Bishop. For the plan to work, Hamilton had to jump squads somehow. As the prisoners were lining up, Ray moved over to Squad One, but the convicts were always counted before they left for work, and Squad One now had one too many. “I’ve got a bad count,” someone yelled, just as Kennedy felt something shove him from behind. It was Ray Hamilton solving the count problem by knifing one of Squad One’s members in the back. As the man fell against Kennedy, Ray stuck him again for good measure, pushed him out of the way, and fell in behind Kennedy. Now the count was good and they could go to work.24

  Hugh Kennedy with the plow squad mules at Eastham Prison Farm. This picture, like most of Kennedy’s photos, was taken with a small hidden camera and smuggled out to be developed.

  —Courtesy the Hugh Kennedy/Pat McConal collection

  As the squads marched out to the woods, Guard Bozeman noticed Hamilton in his group and knew it was wrong but decided to wait until they got to the work area to straighten things out. As they marched, Hugh Kennedy noticed something else strange. His guard, Olin Bozeman, was mounted, but there was also another mounted officer ahead of them. This wasn’t unusual in itself, but the other guard was Major Crowson, the high rider.25 The prison system general manager, Lee Simmons, had instituted the use of a “High Rider” or “Backfield Man” at the Huntsville farms. This was a guard, selected for his marksmanship, who had no squad to oversee, but stayed on the edges of the work area and watched for escapes. The prisoners didn’t always know where he was, but they knew that his only job was to kill them with his rifle if they ran.26

  As Plow Squad One neared their work area, Bozeman called Crowson over. “Tell the captain to come and get Raymond Hamilton and put him back in the squad he belongs in,” Bozeman said.

  “All right,” said Crowson. “You better look out. That means something.” Crowson and Bozeman were now side by side on their horses. Crowson had violated his assignment as high rider by coming in among the squads, and it was about to cost him his life.

  Chow time in the field at Eastham. Taken by Hugh Kennedy with a hidden camera.

  —Courtesy the Hugh Kennedy/Pat McConal collection

  As the two guards talked, Hugh Kennedy saw Joe Palmer walk toward them. He heard Palmer say “All right,” and then watched as Joe pulled out a .45 and shot Major Crowson in the stomach from point-blank range.27 Joe then turned on Bozeman, but the other guard leaned over his horse and away from Palmer so that only his gun was hit. Ray Hamilton then ran to the other side of the horse and shot Bozeman in the hip. By now, the horses were spooked and ran away, taking the two guards with them.28 Joe Palmer later told Lee Simmons that the plan had been to get the drop on the guards. Henry Methvin was to collect their guns when they put their hands up and nobody was supposed to get hurt, but that wasn’t the approach Hugh Kennedy saw.29

  As the horses carried the wounded guards away, Hamilton, Palmer, Methvin, and Bybee ran for the road. Hamilton called to Hugh Kennedy to follow him, but the lead man made his best decision of the morning and stayed where he was. “I’m not following you anywhere,” Kennedy yelled as Hamilton ran for the woods.30 As they ran toward the car, Joe Palmer yelled, “Give us something else!” and Clyde Barrow and James Mullins, who were about 200 yards away near a creek, began firing Browning automatic rifles through the treetops. At this point, whatever order remained was lost. A few guards
reacted and fired a shot or two, and Guard Bullard of Squad Six stood his ground and held the prisoners around him with his shotgun. Two other guards, however, lost their nerve and ran. Unguarded prisoners dove for cover or just milled around; Crowson and Bozeman, both wounded, rode back toward Eastham; tree limbs fell all around the rest of the prisoners and guards as Clyde kept up his covering fire; and Bonnie honked the horn to guide the men through the ground fog that covered part of the area. Only one other convict, J. B. French, actually ran away, but he went in a different direction. He wasn’t part of the escaping group, so he had no plan and no outside help. He just acted on the spur of the moment and was recaptured the next day.31

  Bridge on Calhoun Ferry Road. During the Eastham escape, Bonnie Parker was parked near here with the getaway car.

  —Courtesy the Hugh Kennedy/Pat McConal collection

  Excited and out of breath, the four escapees ran up to the car only to face a new problem. A 1934 Ford V-8 will carry four adults in relative comfort—five or six if they are small and don’t mind a lot of bodily contact. Seven grown people plus a couple of automatic rifles and whatever else Clyde had brought with him was quite a challenge. Mullins announced that only Hamilton and Palmer could get in. The rest would just have to go back. With two guards shot and the whole Texas Prison System about to come down on their heads? Not a chance! Their life expectancy would have been measured in seconds.

  Clyde simply told Mullins to shut up. It was his car, and he wasn’t leaving anybody.32 Somehow, he got everybody shoe horned into the Ford. Brew Hubbard was moving a cow on the Calhoun road that morning and saw the men run up and get into the car. He wasn’t armed, so they left him alone, and he watched as the car drove away with Joe Palmer sitting in the “turtle back” and holding a pistol.33

  Once the shooting stopped, many of the prisoners began drifting back toward the main building at Eastham, where they just sat around for the rest of the day. According to Hugh Kennedy, there was no supper served, several men were beaten by enraged guards just because they were nearby, and one prisoner, who had been missing most of the day, was found and shot to death.34 Crowson and Bozeman were taken to Huntsville’s Memorial Hospital in the same car. Bozeman recovered, but Crowson developed pneumonia and died on January 27. In his last statement to his boss, Lee Simmons, Crowson said, “Joe Palmer shot me in cold blood. He didn’t give me a dog’s chance. I hope you catch him and put him in the electric chair.”35 That was exactly what Simmons had in mind.

  Major Joseph Crowson, the high rider mortally wounded by Joe Palmer during the escape.

  —Courtesy Marc Crowson

  The overloaded Ford traveled as fast as it could away from Eastham Farm, but a few miles west of Weldon, they had to stop and resuscitate Joe Palmer. Riding in the trunk or “turtle” of the Ford, Joe had been overcome by exhaust fumes and passed out, so they moved him up into the already overcrowded front seat.36 As they continued northwest, Clyde worked his way around several roadblocks, sometimes leaving the roads altogether and going cross country. After about 125 miles, they stopped at a filling station in Hillsboro, only to find out that the news had gotten there ahead of them. “Did you hear about Raymond Hamilton escaping from prison?” the gas station attendant asked.

  “No, really?” Clyde said, acting as innocent as he could.

  Crowson’s gravesite at Lovelady, Texas.

  —Courtesy the Hugh Kennedy/Pat McConal collection

  “Oh, yeah,” said the attendant and then went on to tell how the radio was saying that Clyde and Bonnie had walked right into the dining room at Eastham and taken Ray out.37 It was all the escapees could do to keep a straight face. Not even Clyde Barrow could outrun the rumors.

  Marie Barrow said that a phone call to the Barrow house in Dallas set up the next meeting. The call asked that L. C. Barrow and Floyd Hamilton meet the group near Rhome, Texas, a few miles northwest of Fort Worth, with something for the convicts to wear. The meeting was short but vital. Although the group had made it almost 200 miles from Eastham without incident, they had thrown the white prison uniforms in a creek.38 After that, some of the boys were showing a lot of skin, and January in north Texas can be pretty cold.

  After the stop at Rhome, the group went into hiding for a few days. During this time, Bonnie and Clyde drove back to Dallas to see their family. The date was January 18, 1934. We know this because after the ambush at Sowers, Clyde’s mother began marking the dates of “the kids’ ” visits on the wall of her house. It would be almost a month before they came back.39

  The Eastham Prison Farm break marked the beginning of a new phase of Clyde Barrow’s criminal career. Up until then, it had been mostly Clyde and Bonnie with the occasional unknown partners. What the press had called “the Bloody Barrow Gang” in the summer of 1933 was not planned. Clyde’s brother and sister-in-law were just visiting in Joplin, and set to go home the next day. Then there was the shootout and two policemen were killed, and everything changed. The first “Barrow gang” was an accident. The only plan was to stay alive, but this new gang was different.

  The Clyde Barrow who helped stage the Eastham raid was, in some ways, different from the one who endured the long, hot, deadly summer of 1933. He had been shot at and wounded several times. He had killed men, and, in turn, seen people he loved killed and wounded. In the end, he and Bonnie barely escaped with their lives.

  If Barrow was more fatalistic, he was also more experienced. He knew himself and his capabilities. He knew the territory. He wasn’t just a Texas bandit anymore. He had a year and a half’s experience in driving and hiding out all over the central United States. He trusted his instincts. Eighteen months of survival had given him a feeling for situations, and he could tell when things weren’t right. He trusted his nerve. He knew he would not flinch or freeze up in a crisis. He knew that most men—especially lawmen—had a hard time shooting without warning. They hesitated that one extra second when they had a living, breathing human being in their sights. Clyde knew he wouldn’t. He always wanted to get in the first shot for the shock value it provided.

  Finally, Clyde knew that he was a natural leader. Men would and did follow him. Had Clyde been born ten years later and entered the United States military at the beginning of World War II instead of the Texas State Prison at the beginning of the depression, we might know his name as a decorated combat soldier instead of an outlaw. At any rate, the Clyde Barrow of late January 1934 was older, wiser, more competent, more resigned to his fate, and more dangerous. He was also the leader of a new Barrow gang. For the authorities, this was not good news.

  This new gang was not made up of family members or devoted underlings. They were all experienced criminals and, at least in theory, independent contractors. They were, of course, indebted to Clyde for breaking them out, but each had his own agenda, and, like many other outlaw gangs, they stuck together only as long as it suited their purpose. This was strictly business. While the gang was together, though, Clyde was the leader. Clyde was always the leader. Even when Clyde and Buck were together and the newspapers were proclaiming the older brother as the leader of the “Bloody Barrows,” it wasn’t true. The few times that Buck went out on his own inevitably turned into disasters.

  One week after they escaped from Eastham Prison Farm, the new, professional Barrow gang went into action. The first order of business was to raise some money. They had expenses, but they also had debts. Jimmy Mullins had been promised $1,000 for his part in the escape, so they began looking for a quick score—a big one.1

  Lloyd Haraldson probably considered himself a lucky man. At the depth of the Great Depression, when hundreds of small-town banks had failed, he still had his job as cashier of the First National Bank of Rembrandt, Iowa, a small farming community just north of Storm Lake. Not that things had been easy. The bank had been operating under a conservatorship since March 1933, by order of the comptroller of the currency. While not the best situation, First National was still afloat, and there were encouraging rumors t
hat the operation might be put back in local hands soon.2 All this may have been on Haraldson’s mind as he reopened the bank after lunch on Tuesday afternoon, January 23. Whatever he was thinking about, he didn’t notice the four men parked nearby in the tan Ford V-8 sedan with Kansas plates.

  At 1:15 P.M., just after the time lock had released, two men entered the bank and one of them asked for change for a large bill. The next thing the cashier heard was “Keep quiet and stick ’em up.” Haraldson and the only customer, J. F. McGrew, were covered by one man with a gun while the other gathered up the money. Both McGrew and Haraldson were impressed with the coolness with which the bandits worked. During the robbery, people walked past on the sidewalk, and several actually looked in and saw the robbery in progress. The bandits never wavered. They just got the money and went out the back door, which opened into an alley where the tan Ford with the two other men was waiting. They were last seen driving eastward out of town. Sheriff E. A. Thompson was notified immediately and put the eastern part of the county on alert, but the bandits were gone without a trace. The bank would only say they got “over $3,000.” 3

  Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. Taken during a family meeting near Dallas. November 1933.

  —From the collections of the Texas/Dallas History and Archives Division, Dallas Public Library

  The Buena Vista County sheriff had no leads as to the identity of the robbers, but the two men in the bank were almost certainly Hilton Bybee and Raymond Hamilton.4 The two men in the car were Clyde Barrow and Henry Methvin. What the sheriff didn’t know was that there was a fifth man. Joe Palmer was willing, but his body betrayed him. He was so weak that he was curled up on the floor of the back seat. Nobody saw him, and he slept through the whole thing, but Clyde insisted that the loot (which Palmer said was $3,800) be split six ways. That way, Bonnie, who was probably outside of town with a second car, and Palmer both got a share. Not surprisingly, Joe Palmer considered Clyde a real standup guy.5 Before long, Joe would have an even better reason to value Clyde’s friendship.