The Boy Nevada Killed

by Janice Oberding

  Eight years had passed, and the family still lived in Mooresville. Floyd and Dale were there only to steal a car. They decided on the first house that sat off the road, apart and hidden from other houses. No one was home. They ransacked the house, stealing a gun and what valuables and money they could find. Car keys were hanging on a hook outside the kitchen. The keys fit the ignition of the brand-new Mercury coupe parked outside. Floyd turned the key, and they were on their way.

  They drove into Fort Wayne on an empty gas tank. Gas rationing had been voluntary until the spring of 1942, but by August, it was mandatory. Without stamps, no one could buy gas. There were none in the Mercury’s glove compartment.

  They ditched it and stole a new Buick. Floyd slid behind the steering wheel and eased the car out into traffic. Dale opened the glove compartment and discovered gas rationing stamps—lots of them. They drove through the city until they found a likely neighborhood. Floyd parked the car. And they waited. With darkness, shades were drawn, and house lights were turned on. Houses that stood dark meant one thing: the place was fair game.

  Somewhere in Indiana, they stole a U.S. .38 revolver and enriched their haul at each town they stopped in: coins, baubles, a rifle, bullets, folding money and a book of gas rationing stamps. They were set. And they were in a hurry. Taking turns behind the wheel, they ignored the national maximum speed limit of thirty-five miles an hour. The more distance between them and Indiana the better.

  By the time they hit Salt Lake City, their cash was gone. After a few burgled homes, they had another bankroll. Somewhere along Lincoln Highway, Floyd pulled the car to the shoulder of the roadway. “Let’s get some shut eye.” He yawned.

  Dale, who had been napping, demanded. “Don’t you want to go to California?”

  “Sure. But I need some sleep.”

  “Then let me drive.”

  “Not while I’m sleeping you won’t.”

  “It seems to me we could—” Dale stopped and listened to the sound of Floyd’s breathing. Whatever he intended to say, Floyd wouldn’t hear it. He slid down into the seat, his head resting on the window.

  And so they slept on the edge of the Bonneville Salt Flats, happily unaware of what fate had in store.

  Chapter 3

  Welcome to Nevada

  ELKO, AUGUST 20, 1942

  They woke at daybreak. Shivering in the early morning desert cold, Floyd started the car. When the engine warmed, he pulled the Buick onto the road.

  “We’ll be in California before you know it.”

  “I’m hungry—and thirsty,” Dale responded.

  “Who drank all the soda pop last night?”

  Dale ignored him. “Next place we come to, I’m gonna get me something to eat.”

  Floyd silently floored the gas pedal. He wanted a new life in California, too. Dale pulled the rifle from the backseat and loaded it. “I’m gonna shoot me some crows,” he announced, rolling down the passenger-side window. Hanging over the edge, he took aim at birds that flew in the distance.

  “I missed that bird back there because of you, Floyd!”

  “You missed it ’cause you’re a lousy shot.”

  “You’re a lousy driver,” Dale countered. “Slow down will you? How else am I gonna hit one?”

  “Someone’s gonna call the police, you shooting out the window like that!”

  “Someone’s gonna call the police about you driving faster than victory speed, too.”

  “You’re getting on my nerves.”

  “Nothing wrong with target practice.”

  “Quit being such a crybaby,” Floyd snarled, easing up on the gas. “Wasn’t for me you’d be at Plainfield starving and scared about getting your ass whipped.”

  “You think you’re some kinda big shot don’t you? Well, you know what I’ve been thinking? We ought to split up soon as we get the chance.”

  “Fine by me,” Floyd laughed. “I don’t need some crybaby.”

  “It’s a deal then. We’ll get another car and go our separate ways.”

  “Swell. I’m tired of you whining all the time anyway.”

  “I oughta take a poke at you.”

  “Not if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Just pull over and we’ll see about that.”

  “I’m not about to waste my time.”

  Floyd eased off the gas pedal until the car was rolling along at less than twenty miles an hour. “If you can’t hit a bird now you’re the worse shot in the world,” he said.

  “Think so? Watch this.” Dale was halfway out the window. He took aim at the crow. “This time—”

  He steadied the rifle and fired. A lifeless bundle of black feathers came twirling to earth. “Did you see? I hit one! I hit one!”

  Satisfied that his bullets had found their mark, Dale settled back in the seat. Neither of them spoke for the next several miles.

  Elko in the 1940s. U.S. Library of Congress.

  Floyd read the sign at the edge of town, slowing the Buick: Elko County. Here they could go their separate ways. Elko was far larger than Stockwell, though both were small towns. Where Stockwell was made up of farmers, Elko was a community of cattle ranchers, sheep ranchers, miners and cowboys. Founded by the Central Pacific Railroad in 1868, Elko was a relatively new town. Its centennial was still decades away. The first site of the University of Nevada, Elko had subsequently lost the school to the larger, better-known Reno. The first commercial airmail flight in the United States was on Airmail Route Number 5 between Pasco, Washington and Elko. Flying a Swallow biplane, pilot Leon D. Cuddeback made aviation history when he landed in Elko with ten sacks of mail in April 1926. Casino entertainment history was made in Elko when local rancher and hotel/casino owner Newt Crumley set a new standard for gambling establishments in 1941. He built a lounge onto his Commercial Hotel and brought big-name stars like Ted Lewis and Sophie Tucker to town. This changed Nevada gambling forever. Las Vegas would learn from Elko’s Newt Crumley. Innovative entertainment wasn’t the only thing Elko had. The town also had political clout. Nevada governor Edward P. Carville was a former Elko district attorney and district court judge who was born and raised on a ranch in nearby (Jiggs) Mound Valley. Errol J.L. Taber, chief justice of the Nevada Supreme Court, was a local Elko County man and former district court judge.

  Turning off Highway 40, Floyd eased the car to the curb.

  “What do you want to do?” Dale asked.

  Nevada Supreme Court, circa 1942. Author’s collection.

  “I already told you. Soon as I get another car, you can have this one.”

  Dale nodded and crawled from the Buick. Floyd tucked the revolver in his waistband and stepped onto the sidewalk. On the other side of the railroad tracks, three cowboys were laughing and talking on the street corner. A young couple strode past them arm in arm, no one was paying any attention to Floyd and Dale. “There’s a blue coupe over there.” Dale pointed.

  “And what about those men standing by it? Do I say to them ‘Sorry, fellas, I’ve got to steal this car?’”

  The humor was wasted on Dale. “I’m gonna get me something to eat. Give me the keys. You find your own car.”

  Floyd reached in his pocket. “See you around,” he said, tossing the keys to Dale.

  “Yeah, see ya,” Dale said.

  Halfway down the block, he turned around.

  “It wouldn’t be right not helping you get a car.”

  “Suit yourself.” Floyd shrugged.

  They walked up to the Commercial Hotel, peering into car windows as they went.

  “Let’s go back to the car and look around,” Floyd suggested.

  “May as well.”

  Back at the Buick, they noticed a new Studebaker stop in front of the Hesson building. As they watched, the driver slid out of the car and went into a nearby store.

  “Betcha he left the keys,” Floyd said, “I’ll go see.”

  He crossed the street and crept up to the car. Smiling, he waved to Dale and took on
e last furtive look at the street. No one was watching. He jumped in the Studebaker and turned the key. From inside his shop, Mr. Hill saw it all—a young hooligan stealing the Horseshoe Ranch’s new automobile without a care in the world. As the Studebaker pulled away from the curb, Hill grabbed his hat and started for the sheriff’s office. He was still in the office when Deputy Sheriff Guidici came downstairs to get the mail.

  As Guidici scooped up several envelopes, jailer Ed Kendrick told him, “Fellow over there by the name of Hill reported a stolen vehicle, a 1942 gray Studebaker, five passenger coupe, stolen right outside Hesson’s store. It’s been about fifteen minutes. He thinks it may still be in town.”

  “He does, does he?” Guidici nodded to Hill. “Goicoechea and I’ll make a search of town. And you best let Constable Berning know just so in case.”

  Kendrick wasted no time in calling the constable in Carlin. “Morning, Constable Berning.” He said when Berning answered the phone. “We’ve got a report of a stolen vehicle here. A gray coupe five passenger Studebaker, license number 26-519.”

  “I’ll get him for you Kendrick,” Berning said. “He won’t get too far. I’ll take the shortcut and head him off when he comes this way.”

  No stranger to stolen cars, Berning started his old truck and drove up to a narrow spot in the road. With the truck parked so that it partially blocked oncoming traffic, he waited. Traveling salesman Rodney Williams was driving east when he encountered Berning at the intersection of Highway 40.

  He stopped his car, and Berning explained he was waiting for a stolen car from Elko. While the two men were talking, the Studebaker drove up. Berning waved the car to a stop.

  “That it?” Williams asked. Berning nodded.

  “Be seeing you then, Williams.”

  Williams wished him well and drove on just as a red Buick pulled up alongside the Studebaker. Later, he would identify Floyd as the driver of the Studebaker.

  “Everything OK?” the Buick’s driver asked.

  “Get going,” Berning ordered.

  Dale nodded and maneuvered the Buick around the truck.

  “What’s going on, mister?” Floyd called.

  “Well you see it’s like this,” Berning said, opening the passenger door. “You’re driving a vehicle that doesn’t belong to you, and I’m going to have to take you back, buddy.” He slid into the passenger seat. “Turn around and head back to town, buddy.”

  Williams watched Berning get in the Studebaker and drove on.

  “You better get outta this car,” Floyd said, pulling the revolver from his waistband.

  “I can’t do that, son,” Berning coaxed. “Now turn around.”

  “I’m not going back.”

  Constable Berning, who carried his gun holstered beneath his vest, underestimated the danger. Though Floyd had a gun pointed directly at him, he didn’t pull his weapon

  “You don’t want to do this,” Berning said calmly, still trying to talk the boy into going back with him.

  Suddenly, Berning lurched for the gun and started hitting Floyd on the head with his fists. Floyd pulled the trigger, grazing Berning in the left shoulder.

  Looking back through his rear window, Dale saw the struggle that was taking place in the front seat of the Studebaker and sped away. While they fought for possession, Floyd fired a second time, hitting Berning in the throat. “I-I’m hurt bad,” he gasped. “Get me to a doctor.”

  Floyd started the Studebaker. “I’m taking you to a doctor, mister. Don’t worry.” He lied.

  After skirting around Berning’s truck, he stomped on the gas pedal and sped onto Highway 40.

  “Need a doctor—Help me, I’m hurt bad,” Berning moaned.

  “Yessir. That’s where we’re going,” Floyd assured him.

  What was he going to do? He couldn’t go back to Plainfield. He had to get away. Get as far away from here as he could. The speedometer needle was pushing fifty, then seventy. He could make it. He could get to California.

  “Get me to a doctor,” Berning begged. “I can’t stand this pain.”

  But what if…what if…what if this man died, then what? No, Floyd pushed the thought out from his mind. He was past Primeaux station and headed west when the car missed a sharp turn and lurched over a two-foot embankment, crashing onto rocks. “Sorry, mister,” he whispered, jumping from the car. “I’ll send someone to help you.”

  He raced to the side of the road. Any minute, he would be free from—a red blur went by. It was the Buick and safety. Once in California, he could forget all this and start over. Dale slammed the Buick’s brakes on. In the distance, Louis Stilson and Glade Peterson watched Floyd jump from the Studebaker and wave down the red Buick. Floyd got in the passenger seat, and the Buick sped westward. Curious, Stilson and Peterson went to the abandoned Studebaker. There they found Constable Berning lying face down, his head near the steering wheel and his left arm over the back of the seat. Road foreman S.L. Mendenhall came along about that time; Berning was taken out of the Studebaker, placed in a pickup truck and driven to the Elko General Hospital.

  After spending a half hour searching, Deputy Sheriff Guidici and his young deputy Frank Goicoechea found no trace of the stolen car and returned to the sheriff’s office. Kendrick met them at the door with the news. “Dolph Berning’s been shot out at Primeaux,” he gasped. “They’re bringing him in to the hospital now.”

  The two sheriffs sprang into action. In Carlin, they found mechanic Dino Aiazzi working at the Carlin garage. “Constable Berning’s been shot. We’re gonna need a posse.” Aiazzi wiped his hands on his jumpsuit. “Just say the word. Whatever you need to get this man, Sheriff.”

  “I need to deputize you, Aiazzi.”

  Aiazzi nodded his assent, and the three of them drove down to the railroad yard office to find Mr. Alexander, special agent officer for the railroad. Everyone in town knew and liked Berning. When told about the shooting, Alexander was happy to help in apprehending the person responsible.

  Meanwhile, Dale and Floyd were doing their best to get as far away as possible.

  “What was going on back there?” Dale asked after he pulled over to pick up Floyd.

  Floyd opened the passenger door. “Nothing,” he said, sliding onto the front seat.

  “What happened? I saw you and that man fighting in the front seat.”

  “Just drive dammit, Dale. Just drive.”

  Dale did as he was told. He wanted to get to California, too. But he also wanted an answer to his question. The Buick’s windows were rolled down, and air came roaring in on them.

  “What happened?” Dale demanded.

  “I had to shoot the sheriff.”

  “What?”

  “You saw us fighting over the gun. I had to shoot him.”

  Horrified, Dale wished he had never met Floyd Loveless. He kept quiet and weighed his options. Stealing a car was one thing. Shooting someone was another. He knew the score. That was about the worse thing someone could do. This was not what he bargained for when they ran away from Plainfield. Floyd was in real trouble. He would have to get rid of him or else he would be in trouble, too. They rode without speaking; each lost in his own thoughts.

  Dale knew what he had to do. “You still got your gun?” he asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I saw a gun back there a piece by that bush,” he lied. “I’ll back up and you can jump out and get it.”

  “Sure thing,” Floyd agreed. There was no reason not to. Dale slowed the Buick and backed up a few hundred yards. “It’s just over by the bush.”

  Floyd jumped out and ran for the bush. Every man for himself, thought Dale as threw the car into gear and sped away.

  Floyd watched, astonished. He’d been duped. There was nothing to do but roll up his sleeves and start running alongside the highway.

  Arthur O’Brien was driving a water truck for the W.W. Clyde Construction Company, which was building the new highway, when he spotted Floyd cut across the field from the old highwa
y onto the new highway. O’Brien noticed the boy seemed nervous as he approached.

  “Say kid, do you have the time?” he asked.

  “My watch is broken,” Floyd responded.

  O’Brien smiled. “And what about the other one, on the chain? What time does it have?”

  Floyd shook his head and kept walking.

  As Floyd did his best to walk his way out of town, Deputy Sheriff Guidici’s car sped onto Highway 40 and raced toward Primeaux station. At the service station, the attendant came running to meet them.

  “They found Constable Berning out there,” she pointed. “Shot!”

  Aiazzi jumped from the car, “Did you see anyone?” he demanded.

  “He came running and went hitchhiking west,” she said.

  “What did he look like?’

  “He was too far away for me to get a good look at him.”

  Satisfied that he’d gathered all the information he could, Aiazzi climbed back in the car. Guidici gunned the motor and pulled out onto the highway. They were going to catch the man who shot Dolph Berning if it took them all day and night.

  The day was heating up. They rolled down the car windows and let the wind blow in as the car raced down the highway.

  “With all this construction going on that truck—look, there it is over there!” Anderson yelled so that he could be heard over the wind.

  Guidici slowed the car, pulled up and blocked the truck. “Say there!” He called out the open window. “We’re looking for a fellow who shot a constable. You seen anything?”

  “Well, sir, I saw this boy. It was the strangest thing…”

  “What?” demanded Guidici.

  “He came cutting across the field over there looking scared and nervous. I asked him what time he had, and he mumbled something and took off running.”

  “Which way did he go?” Anderson asked.

  “Westward.”

  “Thanks,” Anderson called, as the car rolled away.