by John Gilmore
“—don’t do it!” Blanche blurted out. “You’ll get a heap of trouble for Bonnie. They’ll put it all together—you and her. You don’t wanna do that, Clyde. Not to mention gettin’ yourselves shot! What’re they gonna do to her? Why’re they holdin’ her for?”
“I reckon till they figure it out,” he said. “She won’t let on.”
“She’s got no warrants on her,” Blanche said. “She’s done nothin’ so she can walk anywhere, and nobody’s been tyin’ her to you. They got no cause to hold her, but bustin’ her out before they let her go’s the worst that could happen.”
Clyde sat for a few moments, then nodded, “You’re right, Blanche. I’m just knocked out. Leave her sit till they let her loose. But damnit, I want her to know what’s best, and I want her to know I’m out here lovin’ her and doin’ what I can to see she’s gonna be free. She’s probably in Kaufman, so you go see her right away, and tell her how much I love her.”
Blanche said, “I’ll tell her how you’re frettin’, but she don’t need me tellin’ her how much you love her, but I’ll tell her you’ll be sayin’ it to her soon enough.”
As soon as he switched plates on the Peeltown Ford, Clyde sped north to the Lake Dallas hideout, eager to hear how the action went in Celina. He hid the car a distance from the abandoned shack, and went looking for Jack and the others. Finding Ted Rogers, then Johnny, he asked, “Where’s Jack? Where’s the other guys?”
Jack and Johnny, a pair of young local bad boys, were eager to go into manhood, gun-barrel first. They were usable, Clyde knew. They’d do whatever he said, and try to squeeze as much as they could out of it, whatever it was. They were as equally resentful of one another as they were of cops and posses. All anyone needed, they reasoned, was a gun.
“They should’ve been back by now,” Ted said. “Truth is, I don’t know where they’ve been, sure as hell not to Celina. Johnny and me are just waitin’, doin’ nothin’ till somethin’s ready.”
“What happened in Celina?” Clyde asked.
Ted was reluctant to say it, but then told Clyde they’d failed to carry out the plan of getting any guns. “They took off, and me’n’ Johnny—just the two of us, we figured we couldn’t do it alone.”
Impatient and angry, Clyde said they had to do it now—Ted and Johnny joining him. “The three of us,” he said. He had to have guns now. Without the weapons, it was suicide. “We’ll have to hit Celina tonight.”
Ted looked at Johnny, then back at Clyde. “Tonight?” he asked.
“Tonight!” Clyde said. “We do it tonight!”
An ex-Dallas, long-retired lawman remembers what he learned of the determination, the “fierceness,” as he called it, of the head of “that small gang,” and how “nothin’ was gonna get in the path of that fellow’s notions.” Twenty-two years old in 1932, the ex-lawman says, “I wanted to wear the badge proud, but I didn’t get caught up in that mess directly. Nobody knew who it was back then, but later learnin’ the one in the lead was Clyde Barrow. What there was of it was all over and a long time passin’ before we even knew that, though the town’s deputy sheriff was in the thick of it. Had the keys to his automobile swiped from under him, so he couldn’t do any chasin’. They came right into town to rob for guns. Knew what they were after and where they were goin’, which was right at those guns at the hardware store. I s’pose whatever else they grabbed, as well.
“It was pretty late, I understand, and we had a watchman on the street. He was asked by one of the three for some directions, and soon as he opened his mouth to give ’em the directions, he got whacked on the head. Got his billfold, a few dollars, and his pistol taken. Even took his flashlight.
“It was late, sometime after midnight, and the mayor was just comin’ out of a get-together, had a couple guests with him, and these three boys took all of them, includin’ the watchman, at gunpoint. Went across the road a stone’s throw from the railroad yard, and robbed the mayor of whatever was in his pockets and his billfold, and his watch, and robbed his companions. Then the boys got them all into a railroad boxcar, the watchman, too, just like they were sheep. Slid that big door shut and throwin’ the lock on tight.
“The gang had busted into the drugstore, took a pile of medicines and first-aid stuff—scissors and tape and the like—then raided the hardware store. They gathered up about every pistol, shotgun, and rifle in sight, and what must’ve been a wheelbarrow of ammunition. Even stole a few flashlights and some tools, and from what I understood, soon as they were back on the street they swiped the keys out of the sheriff’s car to keep him from comin’ after them. They rolled right outta town in a car that was stolen.
“They didn’t shoot anybody, worse they did was bang a knot on the watchman’s head, but they sure did some lootin’. A long time later was it figured that the town’d been hit by the Barrow gang, though it was only Clyde Barrow that they got a fix on. A little guy, but had the determination of a bulldog. Never figured who the other two were. Catchin’ them? Catchin’ Barrow?” The retired lawman laughed. “No sir. No such luck. Like he was invisible. Half the town here and the county was expectin’ him comin’ back for an encore.”
Back in the woods surrounding the Lake Dallas hideout, Clyde, Rogers, and Johnny spent half a day manufacturing hiding places for the loot they’d brought from Celina.
They also tried out a few of the new weapons, firing them by the lakeside. After a few rounds, Clyde said, “Someone’s gonna hear these shots. No more shootin’. Ain’t no huntin’ in here.”
For the next two hours, the three men split open automobile inner tubes to wrap the guns before concealing them beneath stacks of branches and leaves. They carefully lined the ammo inside an old truck tire which they half-buried in a deserted shack behind the house. Believing they had successfully camouflaged the loot, Clyde planned to sit back, share a couple beers, and talk about busting into Eastham. He now had the firepower to do it. But instead of launching into plans for the raid, his ears perked up and he half stood. “I hear a car,” he said. Then more than one car. “Get outta here!” he ordered. “It’s the fuckin’ laws!” All three ran for the woods.
Several deputies were on foot, their weapons drawn. Others searched the grounds around the house, quickly discovering the hidden weapons.
“Son of a bitch!” Clyde muttered.
Another car was approaching. Lawmen were at the front and rear of the house, unaware of the three who were hiding in the woods. Rogers said, “That’s Jack comin’—that’s the—” Clyde whispered for him to shut up. Three deputies surrounded the car. Jack and Fuzz, the last members of the gang, were handcuffed. Two other lawmen discovered the Ford that Clyde had left a distance from the house.
Clyde said to Rogers, “Come on—let’s get outta here before they know there’s more of us,” and took after Johnny who’d hid deeper into the woods.
Fourteen
Broke and the Lake Dallas hideout raided, Clyde told Ted and Johnny they’d have to plan some fast action as they were almost hitting bottom. He told Ted, “You keep your shirt coverin’ the butt of that rod in your pants. First car we see we gotta get it. Let’s go.”
The three stayed off the road while following it until they reached a roadside diner. “Gimme that gun,” Clyde said. He took it from Ted and pushed it into the waist of his pants, then handed Ted some crumpled bills. “Go on inside and get us somethin’ to eat. Some sandwiches or somethin’, and soda pops. Me’n’ Johnny’ll be out here around the side of the joint.”
Clyde and Johnny lit up the last two cigarettes from Johnny’s pack, with one left over that Clyde stuck into his shirt pocket as he eyed the three cars parked in the shade. Johnny said, “You wanna hop one of these rides right here?”
Shaking his head, Clyde said, “No. They’ve been lookin’ at Ted in there. That’s why we’re out here.”
When Ted joined them with a sack of sandwiches and two soda pops, he said, “Wasn’t enough dough for three soda pops. I drank some water s
o you guys split the soda pops.”
They walked further, avoiding the road. When they came across several houses, Clyde handed the soda pop bottle to Ted and said, “We’re gonna get that Ford.” He whispered, “Don’t say a fuckin’ thing or make noise. We’ll push it down the road a ways; you jump your asses in soon as it kicks over.”
Sticking to the narrow dirt roads, Clyde pressed on the gas, the Ford bucking over holes. He said, “We’re gonna head around Fort Worth to Hillsboro. This old guy named Bucher runs a store there. They had a kid I knew, but I don’t think they’re gonna ’member me. Been a long time. We’ll be goin’ in to look around. I don’t know if they’ve moved stuff around, these old fuckin’ places don’t do much movin’ of stuff, ’specially a big standin’ safe. You’ll see what they got behind the counter. You guys nose around. He’s got all sorts of shit from huntin’ knives to guitars. We’ll come back later on and clean that safe out.”
The Hillsboro store was on a country road, a part of the Bucher house. While the three were inside the store, Johnny was asking the old man about a particular hunting, saying he’d have to get some boys together and he’d come back later. Clyde was buying a package of cigarettes when Bucher’s wife, an older heavyset woman, looked at Clyde and said, “Heavens! I haven’t seen you since you were a yardstick shorter! You’re the boy that used to traipse around here. You and your brother.”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Clyde said, backing for the door. “Good seeing you, ma’am.” He stepped outside quickly, Ted behind him. “Son of a bitch!” Clyde said.
“She remembers you?” Ted said.
The three climbed into the Ford. “They don’t know you guys,” Clyde said. “It’s an easy job. You saw that safe?”
Johnny said, “It was wide open, the old guy puttin’ stuff in it. Had a gun in it.”
“Easy pickin’s,” Ted said.
“Used to keep it locked at night,” Clyde said, “open for cash or other crap. We’re gonna go off the road until it’s dark, then you guys go back. You tell him you want to get a guitar string, and give him this bill so he’ll open the safe for change.” Clyde handed Ted the revolver. “Just get it and get the money and get your butts out here. I’ll give you five minutes ’cause I’m waitin’ far enough that neither those old folks’ll be gettin’ another look at me. I’ll come along and grab you, so get outta there ’cause I’ll be takin’ off.”
Ted tucked the gun behind his belt. “They get a look at this, it ain’t gonna take five minutes.”
“Now listen to me,” Clyde said. “No fuckin’ shootin’. You do any shootin’, your ass is finished. I hear shootin’ and I’m takin’ off. You’ll be fryin’.”
A short way from the store, Ted and Johnny climbed out of the car, Johnny tying a handkerchief around his neck. Looking at him, Clyde said, “This is a store, man, it’s no stagecoach.”
“They still gonna be lookin’ at us,” Johnny said.
“A helluva lot faster than you goin’ in wantin’ a guitar string,” Clyde said. “Don’t do any stupid shit or you’ll both be standin’ here waitin’ for the laws.”
Clyde quickly turned around, drove a distance from the Bucher property, turned around again and pulled to the side of the road. He figured thirty seconds had already passed, and lit a cigarette. He puffed, waiting for almost four minutes. Then he heard a single gunshot. He threw the car into gear and raced ahead, then hit his brakes as Ted and Johnny came running onto the road. Both climbed into the car, which bolted ahead before the doors were shut.
“Fuckin’ gunshot I heard,” Clyde said. “What the hell was it?”
“Went off—shit!” Ted said. “Just in my fuckin’ hand it went off!”
“What the fuck happened?” Clyde demanded.
“Old man was behind the counter and he hollered somethin’ for his wife to come down and get somethin’ out of the safe—then the goddamn gun went off.”
Clyde said, “I heard it, asshole! I asked you what happened?”
“He fuckin’ shot the old man,” Johnny said.
“Grazed him!” Ted said.
Johnny laughed. “You didn’t fuckin’ graze him. Shot plumb through him ’cause it busted some shit on a shelf. The old guy went down on the floor and that old lady was comin’ down into the store hollerin’, and lookin’ right at Ted who’s got that fuckin’ gun in his hand—just standin’ there—”
“—because it was an accident!” Ted yelled. “I got stunned—I thought, ‘Holy shit!’”
“It’s shit time alright,” Clyde said, and then slowly, evenly, asked, “Did you kill him?”
Ted said, “I said it was an accident!”
“Was he dead?” Clyde said.
Johnny gave another laugh. “He was dead as a plain duck.”
“Shut up!” Ted yelled.
“You shut up! You got both our asses hangin’ on your fuckin’ murder!”
“Both of you shut up,” Clyde said. “I don’t want to hear any bitchin’ like a pair of cunts. I oughta kick your goddamn asses.”
“You can kick his ass,” Johnny said. “He’s done kicked mine with his fuckin’ murder rap, and I didn’t do any shootin’.” Leaning forward from the backseat, he said, “Raidin’ up Celina like we did, it was a good time, I tell you, Clyde. I’ll bust in anywhere and steal anythin’, but fuck if I’ll buy myself a shootin’. I don’t relish goin’ to any goddamn electric chair.”
“You think I do?” Ted grunted.
Clyde suddenly asked, “You get the money or what?”
“I grabbed what I could,” Johnny said. “Ted’s standin’ there and that old woman’s screamin’, some kind of shit comin’ outta that old dead man’s mouth. There was watches and stuff like silver-lookin’ shit in that safe, and rings, but you said five minutes, so I grabbed what bills there were.”
Ted said, “I’m sorry as hell, Clyde. I swear this fuckin’ gun went off like I was barely touchin’ the trigger.”
“Shut up about it,” Clyde said. “Learn to keep your goddamn finger off a trigger unless you’re intendin’ to squeeze it. I reckon the old lady got a good look at both of you?”
“I put my hand on my face,” Johnny said, “soon as she was bustin’ around. She was lookin’ at Ted and that gun, and the old man, then she got down on the floor hollerin’ and I told stupid here, ‘Let’s go,’ ’cause he wasn’t even movin’, like somebody’d turned his ass to stone.” He reached over the front seat, handing Clyde the wad of bills. “Feels like it’s back to the woods, spoonin’ up beans and swattin’ skeeters.”
“Better than Eastham,” Clyde said.
Ted grunted. “And better’n the chair,” he said. “I’m gettin’ sick.”
Johnny sat back. “I hear the hot seat’s like gettin’ thumped square on the head with a big sledgehammer. You don’t feel no shakin’ and jumpin’ as the juice goes through you, even if you start smokin’ up the joint you don’t feel nothin’, ’cause there’s nothin’ left to feel.”
Fifteen
A grand jury had been brought together in Kaufman where Bonnie stuck to her story about two men taking her against her will. She claimed she didn’t know either man, though Ralph Fults, she indicated, had looked familiar to her. She described the second kidnapper as over six feet tall, “a fat man with somethin’ wrong with his mouth.” She swore, “I was taken against my will,” and the jury released her to return to Dallas.
“I said to my momma,” Bonnie told Clyde, “just what she wanted to hear. I said, ‘It’s a cold day in hell when I’m seein’ Clyde Barrow again.’” At that she threw her arms around his neck, kissed him and said, “Let’s go, daddy! Let’s go wherever you’re drivin’ to. I wish we were flyin’ on a magic carpet.”
“We’re not goin’ far,” said Clyde. “But far enough where they aren’t snoopin’ around like a bunch of dogs.” He squeezed her hand. “Was it hard on you? Did you get all upset bein’ in there so long?”
“I’ve been writin’ poetry a
nd thinkin’ of stories. No,” she said, “it wasn’t so bad and they treated me fine ’cause they knew I was bein’ held unfairly. Momma kept askin’ me, ‘What’s the matter with you, Bonnie Elizabeth? Writin’ poems you’re callin’ “Suicide Sal,” and all the words you’ve got in there—they’re the kind people use on the wrong side of the law!’ And then she says, ‘For the love of God, you aren’t gonna kill yourself, are you?’ I said, ‘Momma, the day the devil in hell’s gonna be givin’ bibles to sinners, that’s when you’ll find me layin’ dead by my own hand.’ She was just silly, I told her. I said, ‘The day just isn’t gonna come when I’m gettin’ myself in a jam over any man, livin’ or dead.’” Then Bonnie said, “Not countin’ you, daddy.”
Clyde pulled the car to the side of the narrow road, shut the engine off, and kissed Bonnie again. He said, “Honey, I’ve missed you more’n anythin’ I’ve ever missed in my life, and you know damn well why I took off to get help, thinkin’ I’d bust you outta there, but that would’ve been a mistake against you, honey. I knew they’d cut you loose, believin’ what you’d tell ’em.”
Hugging him again, Bonnie said, “I told Momma all that to ease her thinkin’ and knowin’ she’d be pleased to be hearin’ all that because she’s thinkin’ I’ve gone crazy writin’ everythin’ like I am. Why, daddy, I had a lady in that hoosegow tellin’ me to write to magazines and send them my poetry. She was sayin’ to me, ‘Young lady, you are a real poet! My goodness,’ she was sayin’. Should I mail my poem to a magazine?”
Clyde said, “I like that, honey. Just don’t give ’em any return address.”
Bonnie laughed, and said, “I can call ’em ‘Written on the Run.’ I can make it up like a serial in the picture shows. Couldn’t I do that, daddy?”
Laughing a little and starting the car again, Clyde said, “Sugar, you can do any damn thing it pleases you to do, and I’ll be standin’ right behind you.”
