Pritchard’s porch above the river. Together they pulled W.D. from the backseat, groggy but unhurt. Pritchard noticed the guns and glanced at Cartwright, wondering what they had gotten themselves into. Bonnie, unconscious, was stuck in the front seat, her leg trapped by the crushed car door.
Suddenly, with an audible whoosh, the gasoline caught fire. Flames leaped all around the car and began to lap at Bonnie’s legs. She woke and began screaming. Together Clyde and the two farmers tried to pry her from the seat while W.D. gathered the guns and tossed handfuls of sand onto the fire. As they worked the flames grew higher, engulfing Bonnie’s legs, then licking at her head and shoulders. Her stockings began melting into her legs. Panicking, she screamed for Clyde to kill her. Clyde, ignoring the flames, wrapped his arms around Bonnie and, with the farmers’ help, finally managed to pull her free.
Her legs were badly burned. Clyde carried her up the slope to Pritchard’s ramshackle farmhouse, where his parents and Cartwright’s wife, Gladys, stood watching. Inside, Clyde laid Bonnie on a bed as the elderly Mrs. Pritchard inspected the burns. Bonnie’s entire leg, from ankle to hip, had been burned black, exposing the bone in several places. Her face and arms were blistered. “She needs a doctor,” Mrs. Pritchard said, quickly applying a salve to Bonnie’s wounds.
“No,” Clyde and Bonnie said in unison. “We can’t afford that,” Clyde went on. “Try and do what you can.”
Clyde stepped out onto the front porch and conferred with W.D., then ran back down to the car to retrieve their guns. The Pritchards milled about nervously, unsure what to do. Lonzo Cartwright didn’t know who these people were, but he was certain they were outlaws of some kind. When W.D. wasn’t looking, Cartwright slipped out the backdoor and ran across the fields toward a neighbor’s house, intending to call the police. “Where’d the other guy go?” W.D. asked after a moment.
“I don’t know,” Pritchard said. “He’s probably out back.”
Just then Clyde hurried up to the house, carrying a canvas bag full of guns. He, too, noticed Cartwright’s absence. “I could kick your butt for letting that guy leave,” he snapped at W.D. “Now keep an eye on these people.” W.D. pointed the shotgun at the Pritchards while Clyde knelt beside Bonnie and smoothed her hair. “Honey, I don’t know what to do about moving you,” he said.
“I can travel,” Bonnie murmured. “It’ll hurt for sure. But we can’t stay here.”
A few minutes later, headlights flashed through the woods in front of the house. “Everybody get on the floor,” Clyde ordered. He and W.D. skipped outside and disappeared into the bushes.
A car drove up to the house. Into the night air stepped the Collingsworth County Sheriff, George Corry. With him was Tom Hardy, the Wellington town marshal. Lonzo Cartwright had driven to the jail and told them of the scene at the house. The two lawmen figured they had a trio of drunken teenagers to deal with.
Clyde stepped from behind the bushes, his Browning automatic rifle trained on the two lawmen. “Raise your hands,” he shouted. He and W.D. disarmed the two men and used their handcuffs to bind them together. As they did, W.D. noticed a movement inside the house. Glancing through a kitchen window, he saw Gladys Cartwright, her four-month-old son on her hip, reaching for the backdoor. Thinking she was trying to escape, he fired his shotgun, hitting her in the hand.
As her family rushed to apply bandages to the wound—Mrs. Cartwright’s thumb would later be amputated—W.D. stalked back to the car. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. He glanced over at an old car in the weeds and proceeded to shoot out all four of its tires. Clyde walked into the farmhouse and returned to the patrol car with Bonnie in his arms. He carefully laid her on the backseat. He and W.D. shoved the officers in beside her and
Suddenly, with an audible whoosh, the gasoline caught fire. Flames leaped all around the car and began to lap at Bonnie’s legs. She woke and began screaming. Together Clyde and the two farmers tried to pry her from the seat while W.D. gathered the guns and tossed handfuls of sand onto the fire. As they worked the flames grew higher, engulfing Bonnie’s legs, then licking at her head and shoulders. Her stockings began melting into her legs. Panicking, she screamed for Clyde to kill her. Clyde, ignoring the flames, wrapped his arms around Bonnie and, with the farmers’ help, finally managed to pull her free.
Her legs were badly burned. Clyde carried her up the slope to Pritchard’s ramshackle farmhouse, where his parents and Cartwright’s wife, Gladys, stood watching. Inside, Clyde laid Bonnie on a bed as the elderly Mrs. Pritchard inspected the burns. Bonnie’s entire leg, from ankle to hip, had been burned black, exposing the bone in several places. Her face and arms were blistered. “She needs a doctor,” Mrs. Pritchard said, quickly applying a salve to Bonnie’s wounds.
“No,” Clyde and Bonnie said in unison. “We can’t afford that,” Clyde went on. “Try and do what you can.”
Clyde stepped out onto the front porch and conferred with W.D., then ran back down to the car to retrieve their guns. The Pritchards milled about nervously, unsure what to do. Lonzo Cartwright didn’t know who these people were, but he was certain they were outlaws of some kind. When W.D. wasn’t looking, Cartwright slipped out the backdoor and ran across the fields toward a neighbor’s house, intending to call the police. “Where’d the other guy go?” W.D. asked after a moment.
“I don’t know,” Pritchard said. “He’s probably out back.”
Just then Clyde hurried up to the house, carrying a canvas bag full of guns. He, too, noticed Cartwright’s absence. “I could kick your butt for letting that guy leave,” he snapped at W.D. “Now keep an eye on these people.” W.D. pointed the shotgun at the Pritchards while Clyde knelt beside Bonnie and smoothed her hair. “Honey, I don’t know what to do about moving you,” he said.
“I can travel,” Bonnie murmured. “It’ll hurt for sure. But we can’t stay here.”
A few minutes later, headlights flashed through the woods in front of the house. “Everybody get on the floor,” Clyde ordered. He and W.D. skipped outside and disappeared into the bushes.
A car drove up to the house. Into the night air stepped the Collingsworth County Sheriff, George Corry. With him was Tom Hardy, the Wellington town marshal. Lonzo Cartwright had driven to the jail and told them of the scene at the house. The two lawmen figured they had a trio of drunken teenagers to deal with.
Clyde stepped from behind the bushes, his Browning automatic rifle trained on the two lawmen. “Raise your hands,” he shouted. He and W.D. disarmed the two men and used their handcuffs to bind them together. As they did, W.D. noticed a movement inside the house. Glancing through a kitchen window, he saw Gladys Cartwright, her four-month-old son on her hip, reaching for the backdoor. Thinking she was trying to escape, he fired his shotgun, hitting her in the hand.
As her family rushed to apply bandages to the wound—Mrs. Cartwright’s thumb would later be amputated—W.D. stalked back to the car. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. He glanced over at an old car in the weeds and proceeded to shoot out all four of its tires. Clyde walked into the farmhouse and returned to the patrol car with Bonnie in his arms. He carefully laid her on the backseat. He and W.D. shoved the officers in beside her and
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