Bonnie and Clyde- A Twenty-First-Century Update

by James R Knight

  In addition to its regular lawmen, Iowa was known for its vigilantes, and a group of them from Stuart were first on the robbers’ trail. Phone calls were made to surrounding towns, and word came back that the car had been seen going through Dexter. Two carloads of these civilian enforcers left Stuart in hot pursuit. They were able to follow the car’s trail for several miles but lost it in the countryside southeast of Dexter.3

  Employees’ names, and the dates they worked in the bank, written on the wall inside the vault of the First National Bank of Stuart, Iowa. Note the first name at the top. Harold Cronkhite was the assistant cashier on duty the day the Barrow gang robbed the place.

  —From the Author’s Collection

  Even though the description of the robbers and the woman who waited in the car fit Clyde Barrow, Henry Methvin, and Bonnie Parker, they were not mentioned as suspects in the initial news reports. They were only connected with the Stuart robbery when the license plate that Mr. Bracewell had seen and reported was found in Bonnie and Clyde’s car after they were killed in Louisiana, four and a half weeks later.

  All through the rest of Monday and into the night, Bonnie, Clyde, and Henry drove south for Texas. This time, Henry Methvin was Clyde’s messenger, getting on a train at Wichita Falls and riding into Dallas to contact the Barrows for another meeting. Henry first tried Nell Barrow’s beauty shop in the Sanger Hotel downtown, but it was too early and Nell wasn’t there. Finally, he contacted Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Barrow and set up the meeting for later that same day in Mount Pleasant, Texas, east of Dallas. Emma Parker said that as soon as Henry got there, he told her that he had been the one who had killed the policemen at Grapevine. He may have felt that she needed to know that the news reports about Bonnie doing the shooting were not true.

  When they met later that day, Sonny Boy, the Easter bunny, was finally delivered to Bonnie’s mother, and no one was more relieved than Clyde that the rabbit’s outlaw days were over. He wouldn’t miss the rabbit’s company at all. “Keep him away from the cops,” Bonnie told her mother. “He’s been in two gun battles.”

  At this visit, the family members tried again to convince Bonnie and Clyde to do something to escape the end they all saw coming. Two years on the run had taken a toll on the young couple. You could see it on their faces and on their bodies. Never very large to begin with, they were now thin and gaunt from the constant strain, lack of rest, and poor food. Since the family realized that neither of them could ever surrender now, they begged them to leave the country. “Run for the border and try to start over. Leave Texas forever.” Even this Bonnie and Clyde couldn’t do. Their family was all they had left, they said. If they couldn’t see them, they would rather be dead.

  Clyde wouldn’t run out of the country, but he did have a plan of his own. By now, they had been to Henry Methvin’s parents’ place in Bienville Parish, south of Arcadia, Louisiana, a few times, and Clyde thought he might buy a place near there as a hideout. Once established, the family could come visit him for a change. None of the family believed it would work, but they didn’t say anything. Let Bonnie and Clyde have their fantasy. Anything was better than the hopelessness they all felt.4

  After the meeting in Mount Pleasant, Bonnie, Clyde, and Henry drove north into the Ozarks and finally picked up Joe Palmer, who had been waiting for them for almost three weeks. With Palmer back in the gang, they headed down to Henry’s home near Gibsland, Louisiana, for a few days. At this point, Clyde gave Joe two pistols, one of which had come from the armory at Ranger, Texas. They would go out in the swamps for target practice, and Joe thought Bonnie was a “fairly good shot”—at least on bottles and cans.5

  About this time, they heard the latest news about their old partner Raymond Hamilton. It seems that the high life had drained Raymond’s finances, so he had sent Mary to wait for him in Amarillo while he raised some cash. The plan was to hit a bank and then make a run for California to cool off. Ray began “riding the rails” from New Orleans and found a new partner for the job. To T. R. Brooks, of Wichita Falls, Raymond was just another hobo like himself. How Ray convinced his new partner to take up daylight bank robbery is a mystery, but on April 25, “Teddy” Brooks was waiting in the car when Raymond came out of the First National Bank of Lewisville, Texas, with $1,000 in a bag. A chase ensued, and it turned out to be a very bad day for Ray and Teddy. At Howe, Texas, just south of Sherman, they ran into a roadblock. “Don’t shoot, boys,” Ray said. “I’m fresh out of guns, ammo, whiskey, and women.” That wasn’t strictly true. The police found two pistols on him. At that point, Hamilton decided that if he couldn’t be free, at least he could be famous. “Do you know who you’ve got?” he asked. One of the officers said that he thought he did, and called him by name. “You’re damned right—I’m Raymond Hamilton.” The next day, April 26, Ray and Teddy were taken to the Dallas jail.6 If Clyde Barrow had any respect left for Hamilton, it was finished by the fact that Ray was armed, but gave up without a fight. There was also a little matter about a letter Raymond had written just after Cal Campbell was killed.

  Raymond Hamilton and T. R. Brooks. Captured after robbing a bank in Lewisville, Texas, April 25, 1934.

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

  If Clyde was angry at Raymond Hamilton before the Easter Sunday killings, Ray’s action after the Commerce shooting made him furious. Even though Ray and Mary hadn’t been with Bonnie and Clyde since the first of March, Ray’s name was still being linked to Clyde’s as a suspect in both the Grapevine and Commerce killings. Before he was captured, in an attempt to set the record straight— and avoid three murder charges—Raymond wrote a letter to his lawyer, trying to prove that he had an alibi for both incidents and stating, once and for all, that he didn’t run with Clyde Barrow anymore.

  Dear Mr. Basket,

  I am sending you a bill for the hotel I was staying in at the time of that killing in Commerce, Oklahoma. I haven’t been with Clyde and Bonnie since the Lancaster bank robbery. I’m sending you $100 and want this put before the public and proved right away. I’m sending you more money just as soon as I find out you are doing what I ask. I’m putting also my fingerprint on this bill. I’m also leaving a letter at this hotel for you. You can call for it. My fingerprint will be there when you call for it. You know I try to keep my promise. I want you to let the public and the whole world know I am not with Clyde Barrow, and don’t go his speed. I’m a lone man and intend to stay that way. I wrote Mrs. M. A. Ferguson but I guess it was in vain. I was in Houston the night of April 4 and have been here (New Orleans) ever since April fifth.

  Yours truly,

  Raymond Hamilton

  The letter was postmarked April 7 and appeared in the Dallas Morning News on April 9. It was written on stationery from the Lafayette Hotel, New Orleans.7

  Raymond Hamilton’s letter had been bothering Clyde Barrow for two weeks, and now that he finally knew where Ray was, he could reply with his own letter. From the handwriting, it was almost certainly dictated by Clyde and written by Bonnie. As they finished their visit in Louisiana and headed back north, they dropped it in a mailbox in Memphis, Tennessee. Postmarked April 27 and arriving at the Dallas County Jail on April 30, it is much longer and more personal than Hamilton’s short note to his lawyer. Clyde’s anger comes through in almost every line.

  Mug shot of Floyd Garland Hamilton. Taken when he was arrested for helping his younger brother, Raymond, rob a bank at Grand Prairie, Texas. April 23, 1934.

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

  Raymond Hamilton

  505 Main Street

  c/o Dallas County Jail

  Dallas, Texas

  Raymond:

  I’m very sorry to hear of your getting captured, but due to the fact you offered no resistance, sympathy is lacking. The most I can do is hope you miss the “chair.” The purpose of this letter is to remind you of all the “di
rty deals” you have pulled. When I came to the farm after you I thought maybe the “joint” had changed you from a boastful punk. However I learned too soon the mistake I had made. The first thing that aroused my suspicion was your suggestion of shooting Joe Palmer in the back while he was asleep. You soon learned about how I felt about such “cat ideas.” Since then I have found your reasons for wanting to do this was because Joe was on the farm with you and knew what kind of a guy you were. The next impression was when we got the road “blocked” on us in the Ozarks and you were too “yellow” to fight. You cowered on the floorboard, afraid of being shot. Now that you’re in the Dallas jail, you have a tested pal, W. D. Jones. You might get a few pointers from him on how to impress the people you were an innocent, or possibly, forced companion of the ruthless Barrow gang. You might be as lucky as he was in making them believe I kept you handcuffed or tied.

  When you wanted to get your Prostitute Sweetheart I thought OK. But when you were so persistent about her going to town alone that idea wasn’t so “hot.” I thought then and truly believe now that should she have gotten off without Bonnie she would have “spotted” us all. She hails from a “rat” family and you couldn’t expect better from her.

  You exposed your “hole card” when you stole the money from us on the Lancaster “job.” That’s what I have my rear vision mirror for, to watch suspicious people. When I demanded a “shake down” you offered such strange excuses for having the money on you I should have killed you then. I would have saved myself much bother and money looking for you. For after you writing that letter saying you didn’t stoop so low as to rob filling stations I have done nothing but look for you. Should I have found you, you wouldn’t have had a chance to give up. You couldn’t stand the rift of the outlaw life. For one reason you were too yellow and knew you could never surrender with me and another reason you wanted to play “Big Shot,” sleep in hotels and ride passenger trains. You weren’t intelligent enough to know that you couldn’t live like a king and stay out. I don’t claim to be too smart. I know that some day they will get me but it won’t be without resistance. You only carried your guns around to “show off” or else kidnap women and children.

  I guess you find where your boastful long tongue has gotten you. Maybe you can talk yourself out of the “chair.” Or maybe you can write a few more letters (try one to the governor) at least it will gain you some publicity.

  When you started the rumor about Bonnie wanting a “cut” of the loot you sure messed your self up. I have always taken care of Bonnie and never asked any thief to help me.

  I hope this will serve the purpose of letting you know that you can never expect the least of sympathy or assistance from me.

  So Long—

  Clyde Barrow8

  There exists another letter that claims to be from Clyde Barrow. It was badly typed on a Western Union form, addressed to Dallas Assistant District Attorney Winter King, and included a fingerprint supposed to be Clyde’s. The family never believed that it was authentic. Besides the poor typing, the grammar and spelling are awful—nothing like the relatively well-written letter that is certainly Bonnie and Clyde’s work. It also tries to implicate Raymond Hamilton and Mary O’Dare in the Grapevine killings. It may have been written as a hoax, or by someone who wanted to cause Raymond some extra trouble—as if he needed any more—but it almost certainly wasn’t Clyde.9

  Bonnie, Clyde, Henry, and Joe spent a day or so in Memphis, and Bonnie insisted on buying Joe Palmer a gray suit.10 They were headed back north to some of Clyde’s favorite hunting grounds. Their vacation was over. It was time for business again.

  Nice, lazy, spring Sunday afternoons were probably a great time to steal cars. Everybody would be inside taking a nap. At least it must have seemed that way to Clyde Barrow on April 29, 1934, as he cruised the neighborhoods in Topeka, Kansas, looking for his next ride. In the driveway of Jesse and Ruth Warren’s house, at 2107 Gable Street, sat an immaculate new 1934 cordoba gray Ford model 730 deluxe four-door V-8 sedan with the new accessory—an external trunk made by Potter Manufacturing, of Jackson, Michigan. The car only had 1,243 miles on it, and everything about it said “conspicuous”—not the kind of car for a young couple wanted by every police department in the mid-United States. But it was just too nice to pass up, and within seconds, Clyde was driving it away.1

  Even though Clyde Barrow was a Texas boy through and through, he seemed to have a special fondness for the Midwest plains. Some of his first activities after he got out of prison were in this area, and he went back, time after time, over his two-year career. One of his favorite areas was western Iowa, and this was where he headed next. The area from Des Moines westward was characterized by mile after mile of fields full of corn and other grains, small towns, and—especially important for Clyde’s purposes—small-town banks. He had already hit three of them in the past three months, but there were still plenty left.

  Strange as it may seem, small-town bank robbery, as practiced by Clyde Barrow and his contemporaries like Raymond Hamilton and Pretty Boy Floyd, was a relatively low-risk occupation. Granted, you were very likely to end up dead or in prison eventually, but—in the early 1930s—the actual robbing of a country bank was a fairly straightforward affair. There were exceptions, of course. On November 23, 1932, Pretty Boy Floyd’s old partner George Birdwell and another man were shot down by the citizens of Boley, Oklahoma, as they tried to rob a nice, easy country bank.2 By now, though, Clyde had it down to a science. He did his homework, his technique was almost always the same, and there was never any serious opposition. Only three times was Clyde ever called upon to fire a weapon during a bank robbery or was he seriously threatened during the getaway.3

  As far as we know, only two people were ever injured during any bank robbery in which Clyde Barrow participated. This is not to say that Clyde was a gentle man. He was just smart enough to know that it was in his best interest to get in, get the money, and get out with the least amount of fuss. Many times, Clyde was already out of sight before anybody outside the bank knew what had happened, and given a ten or fifteen minute head start, nobody could catch him.

  On May 2, 1934, Bonnie and Clyde, with Henry Methvin and Joe Palmer, were driving through northwestern Iowa, getting ready for the next bank job. Normally, the countryside would have been green with the summer crops, but the last few years had not been kind to farmers in this part of the country. This year had been especially dry. There had been little snow over the winter and only about three inches of moisture since the previous fall. Rainfall for the month of April was 60 percent below normal. Farmers were resorting to hauling water for livestock because of dry wells, and the hay and other feed crops were in danger. Fifteen consecutive dust storms in the past few weeks had left topsoil piled along the side of the roads. As they approached the town of Spencer, in Clay County, the landscape looked more like the sand dunes of the Sahara Desert than the corn fields of the American Midwest.4

  On Thursday morning, May 3, several residents of Everly, Iowa, a few miles west of Spencer, noticed a gray, sporty-looking Ford V-8, containing three men and a woman, cruising around town. Some of them noticed the Iowa license plate because of the distinctive sequence of the last four numbers—13-1234.5 About 1:30 P.M., the car stopped across the street from the Everly branch of the Farmer’s Trust and Saving Bank, and two of the men got out and went inside. Owen Goodspeed, the branch manager, was behind the teller window when one of the men asked for change for a large bill. When Goodspeed turned back to his customer, he saw a pistol and was told that this was a robbery.

  Two other people in the bank, a stenographer and another customer, were seated in chairs, the teller cages were stripped of money, and Goodspeed was taken into the vault, where a safe was located. Goodspeed convinced the robbers that he couldn’t open the safe, so they put the others into the vault with him. The two men then left through the side door to the gray Ford that was waiting for them, drove west out of town, and disappeared.

  Aga
in, Clyde had pulled off what seemed like a perfect operation. Speed and reliance on past experience had their drawbacks, however. Clyde and his accomplice Joe Palmer were fast and efficient, but as in several other cases, they made mistakes. The first reports of the holdup set the “take” at about $2,000, but a later check revealed that not only had the bandits failed to get the safe open, they had missed $500 in cash, not counting silver and a Liberty Bond. The final accounting showed about $700 missing.6

  After the Everly job, Clyde, Bonnie, and Henry were heading back to Louisiana to stay with Henry’s family, and they wanted Joe to go with them. “Come on,” they said. “We’ll do some hunting and fishing on Black Lake—buy some swimming suits, maybe.” Palmer, though, didn’t like it much down in Louisiana, and suggested that they come with him to Chicago and see the World’s Fair, which was in progress. Bonnie and Clyde cared as little for the World’s Fair as Joe did for rural northwest Louisiana, so they agreed to part company. Clyde left Joe outside Joplin, Missouri, and drove away. In three weeks, Joe Palmer would be at Clyde Barrow’s funeral.

  There were many different opinions of Clyde Barrow in 1930s America. The official ones, published in the newspapers and given out by police departments, were uniformly bad. Among his family, friends, and associates in the outlaw world, the opinions varied widely—all the way from beloved son and brother to yellow coward and gun-crazy punk. Joe Palmer’s was one of the most generous: “Clyde maybe was a murderer and killed folks, but he sure was good to me and the boys—and he toted fair.”7