by John Gilmore
Ray Hamilton told his sister he felt like a “dog in a box with the lid nailed down.” He said, “Might as well be in a goddamn coffin.” He’d had to get out of Michigan. He said he could “smell laws” everywhere he went. From his younger sister he learned he was wanted for the Bucher murder. He cried, “What the hell! I don’t know what they’re talkin’ about!”
Hearing that both he and Clyde were being hunted for the Hillsboro robbery and killing at Ray said, “Goddamnit to hell! I wasn’t even there! I wasn’t even in Texas!”
His sister said, “You coulda come back and gone again. How would I know what you do?”
“Fuck you,” he told her. “It had to be Clyde—he must’ve been in on it with someone they got me confused with.”
Ray’s sister said, “I heard it all from L.C. at the gas station. He learned Clyde knew about it but said he didn’t do any of it either. Said he couldn’t understand them identifyin’ him. L.C. also said he knows you weren’t around to shoot that old man.”
“Doesn’t sound like Clyde doin’ somethin’ like that, but why me, goddamnit? Who the hell says I did it?”
“What I hear’s the old man’s wife’s sayin’ it. They got a wanted sign with you and Clyde on it. The old lady said it was you and Clyde, so you better get outta here ’cause the laws’re lookin’ all over for you and for Clyde, who’s done run off somewhere. Billie Jean said Bonnie’s gone to work up Wichita Falls way, but I seen her drivin’ off in a blue car with Clyde, who had his hat all down on his head so you couldn’t see him good.”
Ray got a ride with his brother, Floyd, who told him, “I know where Clyde and Bonnie are if you’re goin’ lookin’ for ’em, but we’ll get out of here ’cause the fuckin’ laws’ll be back like they’re usin’ a clock. You can set your goddamn watch by ’em.”
Riding the same back roads as Clyde, though only half as fast, Floyd snuck his brother out of West Dallas. They stopped in Bellevue for coffee and a sandwich, but Ray stayed in the truck while Floyd bought the sandwiches and returned to the truck. They ate as Floyd drove to Wichita Falls. He soon slowed down on a dirt parkway to several green-painted tourist cabins. Floyd said, “See that one with the newspapers stuck over the windows? That’s where they are. He’s probably got a car around back where it’s dark as a nigger’s ass. I gotta shag outta here, but if y’all got action planned, you gonna let me know?”
Ray looked at his brother. “I don’t know what Clyde’s got planned. You longin’ to get your picture on a wall as well?”
“Fuck no!” Floyd said. “Just thinkin’ I can help you guys out and get a little extra scratch. Fuckin’ holes goin’ in the seat of my pants.”
“I don’t know what we’re gonna do,” Ray said. “Maybe just sit around and jaw over gettin’ our butts framed by the fuckin’ laws.” He climbed out of the car, saying, “But I’ll get a word to you, brother. Take care of sis.”
Standing at the cabin door, Ray watched the truck turn back onto the road again, then he gave a knock that only Clyde, Bonnie, Ralph Fults, and Ray knew.
For the following two days, Clyde played his saxophone or played poker with Ray, who otherwise shuffled cards and drink whiskey. Clyde said, “By Friday the cash at the Grand Prairie’s gonna be ripe enough for pickin’.”
Ray disagreed. He wanted to go sooner. He was anxious and antsy, his pants itching. His face was breaking out in a rash. Sitting on the creaky bed, the pillows behind her, Bonnie kept writing on a school tablet, her pen point scratching at the paper. She looked at Ray and said, “Your face is all gettin’ red and puffed up. Sure hope you didn’t catch no contagious fevers while you been runnin’ around.”
Ray said, “I didn’t do no runnin’ around! I just wanna get goin’.”
“Sit down and shut up,” Clyde said. “We’re goin’ when it’s time.”
Ray sat down on a three-legged footstool, watching Clyde carefully clean the .45 automatic. “You get worryin’ too much,” Bonnie said, “and you’re gonna bust out in hives.”
“What’re you writin’ so much for?” Ray said. “You writin’ a book? You keep scribblin’ on that paper.”
“I’m not scribblin’,” she said. “If it’s any of your business, I’m writin’ a letter to a magazine company in New York City.”
“You’re writin’ some magazine company?” Ray said. “While the laws’re cookin’ us on murders we never done?” She just looked at him for a moment, shrugged, and then continued writing. “Any more booze left in that bottle?” Ray asked Clyde.
“No,” he said.
“You swallowed it all last night,” Bonnie said, “or was it this mornin’? You swallowed the beers and swallowed the whiskey I bought.”
Looking at Clyde, Ray asked, “How long we gonna stay cooped up like this?”
“Until it’s time to go,” Clyde said, then almost in a sing-song tone: “We grab a car and get down to Grand Prairie, then grab another one for Bonnie to wait in while we pull the job—then we dump the other car and head here.”
“Hightail it back here.…” Ray said. “This place shuts in on me. I’m all for gettin’ on the road. Get outta Texas. It don’t bother me none what the laws’re pullin’. I’m thinkin’ to hell with ’em. Right? What we need is hittin’ that bank.”
“Interurban first,” Clyde said. “It was your idea. Then the Neuhoff job.”
Ray clapped his hands together. “We’ll do it! Get both. Then the bank. I’m itchin’ for the bank! You takin’ the shotgun?” Clyde pressed a loaded clip into the butt of the .45. He cocked it, blew on the muzzle and looked at Ray. “You got your .38. We go in fast, pal. No shittin’ and no shootin’ unless someone else starts somethin’.”
“I’m not doin’ any shittin’,” Ray said.
“We drop Bonnie at my folks,” Clyde said. “She don’t want her mom seein’ her with me.”
“I’m gonna be listenin’ to the radio,” she said.
Clyde nodded. “Seein’ if we make it.”
Sixteen
Clyde told Ray, “Ross Dyer’s okay. We need him on the wheel.”
Shaking his head, Ray said, “He’s a fuckin’ nervous guy. He don’t want nothing big. I tried to talk him in on a job but he’s after small shit—peanut shit.”
“He can drive, can’t he? We need one of these guys at the wheel.”
Ray got Dyer and told him what was in store. Ross told Ray, “I just wanna get drunk and get some pussy, man. That don’t take any arm and leg, and buyin’ myself a fuckin’ coffin, man.”
“Oh, bullshit!” Ray said. “You fuckin’ owe me, Ross. We need a third man and you’re here. I thought you were solid—what’re you pullin’? You sayin’ you’re a squirt? Get your fuckin’ shoes on and let’s go. You want some bucks, don’t you?”
Ross stayed behind the wheel while Clyde and Ray entered Neuhoff Brothers Packing Company. A bookkeeper was counting out the payroll as the two came into the office where the company owners were working. With pistols drawn, Clyde and Ray cornered the Neuhoff brothers, Clyde saying, “This is a stickup, so y’all take it nice and easy and we’ll be outta here in a minute.” Ray produced a grocery bag and scooped the cash payroll off the table. An older safe proved empty except change used to pay for postage.
Backing out of the office, Clyde warned, “You stay where you are and nobody gets hurt.” They made their way to the loading dock, jumped down and climbed into the idling car. Ross was sweating as he drove quickly away from the plant.
Two miles away, they turned onto a side road where the three abandoned the car, got into a second one they had stolen that morning and left parked off the road.
Behind the wheel again, Clyde maneuvered the side roads back towards West Dallas. Ross said, “I’m glad we’re gettin’ outta that car. Some guy kept lookin’ at it like what the hell was I doin’ there. Made me fuckin’ nervous. You guys didn’t take no time at all.”
When they reached Eagle Ford road, Clyde stopped and Ray climbed out onto the b
ackseat next to Ross. Clyde then drove to the Barrow service station, honked once, and Bonnie hurried towards the car. Getting in flushed and excited, she asked, “Where are we going, daddy?”
“First get rid of the plates on this car,” he said, “then you pick the best place to buy a good catfish dinner, and tell ’em to burn it black as hell.”
Ray said, “Someplace where nobody’s gonna be knowin’ us.”
That night after a fish sandwich and three beers, Ross fell asleep in the car where they’d parked behind the Wichita Falls cabin. Inside the cabin, Clyde played his saxophone, a slow version of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles,” while Bonnie rocked slowly back and forth and Ray fell asleep on the floor. Bonnie finally said, “Come on, daddy, why don’t you tell Ray to go sleep on the chair?” Clyde said to hell with Ray, let him sleep where he was.
Days later, while Bonnie went to downtown Dallas with her mother, Clyde, Ray, and Ross drove south, stole another car in Corsicana and robbed a gas station. After changing plates, they drove north, bypassing Dallas and headed for the Oklahoma border. The plan they’d discussed was to lay low in McAlester where Ross said he had a pal, then all four hit a bank south of Oklahoma City, and beat it south back to Texas.
Hours after nightfall, Ray obtained two bottles of rye and a half-dozen pickled eggs in a juke joint before crossing the Red River into Oklahoma. A few miles north of Atoka as they approached Stringtown, Ross said, “Hey! There’s a dance goin’ on! They got a band out there and look at them dancin’. Look at those skirts twirlin’ around! Let’s go see it!”
“Yeah!” Ray said, tucking the opened bottle of rye between his legs as Clyde drove off the highway and onto the dirt road. He brought the car to a stop on the festival grounds and close to the raised, outside platform holding a small band and the dancing couples.
“There’s girls all around here!” Ross said, opening the car door. “I’m gonna stretch my legs, maybe see me a filly while you boys take it easy.”
“You take it easy,” Clyde said, as Ray raised the bottle for a couple quick swigs. He handed the bottle to Clyde who shook his head. “I don’t want any of that crap,” he said.
Ray said, “You think ol’ Ross’ll get himself a hunk of ass?”
“It’s a dance,” Clyde said. “It’s no whorehouse.” Then, as though tapped on the shoulder, he turned his head and looked out the window. Two lawmen were quickly heading toward the car. “Put that fuckin’ bottle down!” he said.
“I see ’em,” Ray said, stashing the bottle. “I saw ’em a minute ago.”
He reached to the floor of the car and brought up his pistol.
“You fellas there!” the older lawman said, his hand dropping for the holster at his side. “You get your butts outta that car and keep your hands above your head—”
The lawman didn’t finish what he was saying or manage to get his gun free of the holster before Ray leveled the pistol a foot from Clyde’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He pulled it again and the gunshot shook the air. The lawman went down clutching his chest. All hell broke loose on the dance stand—band scattering and people running or dropping to the floor.
The hammer to Ray’s pistol jammed again and he cried, “The other law’s gonna shoot—” and Clyde fired once, then threw the car into reverse, jammed down on the gas and backed out fast, almost hitting other parked cars. A bullet went through the windshield and Ray said, “That fucker you got’s firin’!”
Clyde shifted into low and raced across the dirt towards the highway. He couldn’t see the ditch at the side of the dirt road and went careening into it nose-first. The car nearly tipped over, but throwing open the door, Clyde climbed out and ran towards the highway. He could hear Ray running behind him, yelling, “Where the hell’s Ross?”
“Fuck him!” Clyde said. “He’s on his own!” They ran across the highway and in moments out of sight from the fairgrounds.
Hurrying across the field, the lights and confusion in the distance, Ray breathing hard, Clyde said, “We gotta get another car right now! Too bad you had to shoot first, ’cause these fuckin’ Okies’ll hang us to a tree.”
Ray said, “Son of a bitch was goin’ for his gun!”
“He spied you drinkin’ is what he did,” Clyde said.
Ray said, “What about Ross? I saw him runnin’ when we hit the ditch.”
“Who knows. He’ll get in touch. Hey, there’s houses over there.”
In minutes they were on a narrow street, looking at cars. The first car wouldn’t start. “Come on,” Clyde said. The second car started, and Clyde pushed for speed. They reached the main road south and turned onto a dirt road. The car died. “We’re out of gas!” Clyde said.
They walked. It was past midnight when they reached a crossroads, then took a lane leading to an old house. Clyde knocked on the door. When a man opened it, Clyde said, “Sorry as heck to disturb you, but we’ve got a woman in labor and the car’s outta gas on the highway. Gotta get her to a doctor....”
Nodding, the man said, “My son’ll take you.” He called out, “Haskell? Get these fellas to their car. Take the truck. They got a lady in labor.”
Haskell threw on a short jacket and stepped outside. “Bad time to run out of gas,” he said, leading Clyde and Ray around to the rear of the house. “It’s a stripped-down mail truck,” the boy said as the three got into the truck. “Takes a couple minutes to kick over.”
As they headed for the crossroads, Clyde said, “Take the back road here—goin’ south.”
“It’s the wrong way to the highway,” Haskell said. Clyde said they needed to get a doctor and take him to the car. Haskell shook his head. “There’s no doctor down this ol’ road—” but stopped talking and looked down at the barrel of Clyde’s gun pushing at his ribs.
Clyde said, “It doesn’t matter about the doctor, Haskell. We got nobody on the highway havin’ a baby. Just needed to get on the road.”
“You stealin’ our truck?” Haskell asked. “What’re you gonna do with me?”
Ray laughed. Clyde said, “Nothin’s gonna happen to you, Haskell. Just pull over. You get in the middle, and I’ll drive your truck.”
“You’re not goin’ to shoot me, are you?”
“I got no reason to shoot you,” Clyde said. “Just do as I tell you.”
Haskell pulled over, got out of the truck and came around to the other passenger side. Ray got out and let the boy sit in the middle. Ray pulled out his gun and held it on his leg, pointing at Haskell’s thigh.
The truck jerked and bucked as Clyde sped ahead, the dirt road narrowing, a tire exploded with a bang. It took a short while to change the tire, all three men slipping on the muddy road, and where the dirt trail ended, Clyde drove ahead to cross a shallow stream. Halfway to the other side, the left front end of the truck dropped with a jolt.
All three climbed out. The front left wheel had come off the axle. “Come on!” Clyde said, angrily. “We’re almost on the highway. Let’s go—this truck’s dead.”
“This road goes south,” Haskell offered. “I see a car comin’.…”
“We’ll get a car,” Clyde said to Ray. “Go on out and flag ’em down.” To Haskell, he said, “Go on over to the side of the road, boy—that’s in case we got some trouble.” Haskell hurried off the highway as Ray went in the middle of the road and began waving.
Standing at the edge of the road, Clyde watched as the car slowed down, illuminating Ray in the bright headlights. Only the butt of the pistol showed sticking from Ray’s back pocket. The car had stopped as Ray approached the man behind the wheel who rolled down his window. Leaning down, Ray said, “A wheel came off our car on that side road over yonder—” He reached into the car, surprising the driver, and snatched the keys from the ignition.
“What the hell!” the driver said as Clyde walked to the passenger side of the car where another man was locking the door and leaning forward to hear what Ray was saying. The man’s mouth dropped open when he saw
Ray pointing his gun at the driver.
Clyde rapped on the window with the barrel of his own gun, and when the man saw the hammer being pulled back for Clyde to shoot through the glass, he unlocked the door and raised his hands. “What’s this? What’s goin’ on here?” the driver demanded. “What the hell you doin’? What the hell is this?”
“Both you gentlemen get outta the car,” Clyde said. “Go to the side of the highway where you’ll be safe.”
Ray ushered the driver out of the car, then climbed behind the steering wheel. Clyde got into the car and waited until the two men joined Haskell at the side of the road, then he told Ray, “Let’s go.”
Seventeen
New Mexico was Bonnie’s idea. With law crowding in on all sides for Clyde and Ray, she said, “We can go visit my aunt in Carlsbad. It’s in New Mexico. We can relax and eat chicken and my momma told me Aunt Millie’s got an ice cream-makin’ machine. And we can go see the famous caverns.”
“So what’s the Carlsbad Cavern?” Ray said. “A big hole in the ground—like a fuckin’ grave.”
Bonnie laughed. “It’s a big underground cave—a cavern. It’s a lot of fun. I was gonna see it when I was little, so maybe we’ll go and see it—and see the desert.”
Quiet for moments, Clyde then said to Ray, “After you shootin’ the shit outta that laws and gettin’ our ass about done in, I’m ready to get out of Texas and Oklahoma—take it easy for a while eatin’ chili’n’ enchiladas. Nobody’s lookin’ for us in New Mexico.”
Bonnie stayed in the cabin, writing a note to her mother while Clyde and Ray went to exchange cars. They deserted the one they were driving, and headed back to the cabin. Outside in the shade where the branches blocked the morning sun, Clyde loaded the car—guitar, his saxophone, two boxes of Bonnie’s junk and magazines, which they stashed on top of the extra ammunition. He put the first-aid tin box in the trunk, then selected an out-of-state plate for the car. Behind the steering wheel, he adjusted the shotgun to his left side, made sure Bonnie was comfortable, and shifted into low. She settled back into the seat, smiling to herself as Clyde slipped the clutch and drove out of the woods.
