without another word drove off.
They drove through the Texas darkness in silence, the only sounds Bonnie’s moans from the backseat. Clyde glanced in the rearview mirror and was pleased to see the marshal, Tom Hardy, stroking her hair, trying to comfort her. After a while she seemed to stabilize. Clyde lightened up and began talking. “Did you coppers ever hear much about the two Barrow brothers?” he asked at one point.
“No, I can’t say that I have,” Hardy answered, not wanting to anger Clyde. “We have no record of them in the office,” Corry added.
“Don’t you mugs ever read the papers?” Bonnie whispered.
At a bridge six miles west of the town of Sayre, Clyde stopped and honked the horn. “Everybody out of the car,” W.D. ordered. The officers lined up against a bridge rail. Clyde covered the men while W.D. walked to the far end of the bridge and talked to someone in a car parked in the shadows. By and by he returned with the lethargic Buck Barrow at his side. “When do we get going?” Buck asked.
“What we gonna do with these coppers?” W.D. asked.
Clyde thought a moment. “Let’s march ’em down the river a piece and tie ’em up.” Buck and Clyde herded the two lawmen down toward the river. At the water’s edge Clyde ordered them to stop.
“What would you do if we turned you loose?” he asked.
Hardy said they would head straight home. He tried to look brave. He would not beg for his life.
“Yeah, I know,” Clyde said, his voice heavy and tired. “You’d run your legs off getting to a phone.”
“What’re you gonna do with ’em?” Buck asked. “Want ’em tended to?” He raised his rifle.
Clyde pondered the two men. “You get a bunch of wire off that fence,” he told Buck, motioning toward a string of barbed wire. “Yeah, they’ve been pretty decent cops. But I’ve said I’d never take a cop for a ride and let him live to squeal his head off.”
Buck brought the barbed wire, and together they tied the men to a tree. They stood before the two lawmen a minute, then started back up the slope. After a moment Buck stopped and turned, his rifle pointed at Hardy. There was a long moment of silence.
“Come on,” Clyde finally said. “Let’s get going.”
They let the men live.
Clyde’s elusiveness always owed more to his skill with cars than with guns; he thought nothing of driving a thousand miles in a day, if that’s what it took to outdistance the law. That night he drove the length of Oklahoma, reaching Arkansas around dawn. Bonnie deteriorated, pitching and moaning in her sleep. Just after sunrise they pulled up at the Twin Cities Tourist Camp in Fort Smith. After Blanche registered, Clyde carried Bonnie to a bed. She whimpered for her mother. Clyde drove into town alone and found a doctor named Walter Eberle. He told Eberle that his wife had been injured by an exploding oil stove, and the doctor followed Clyde back to the motel. “This woman needs to be hospitalized,” Eberle said after dressing Bonnie’s burns.
At wit’s end, Clyde drove back to Dallas to get Bonnie’s sister Billie. He reached the Parker home early that evening. Both Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Barrow offered to come to Fort Smith, but Clyde waited instead for Billie, who was at the movies. Clyde paced the Parkers’ living room anxiously, at one point breaking into tears. He hadn’t slept in two days, and the strain was showing. Finally Billie returned and after packing some clothes, left with Clyde.
Ted Hinton, a deputy sheriff who knew Clyde, was on night patrol when he spotted the car heading east. He hesitated because he didn’t recognize Billie. By the time he turned to follow, Clyde was gone. Driving fast through the East Texas night, he and Billie reached Fort Smith at dawn to find Bonnie on the verge of death.
Minneapolis, Minnesota Thursday, June 15 12:45 P.M.
Five days later, as Clyde hovered over Bonnie’s deathbed in Arkansas, the familiar smell of fresh hops and
They drove through the Texas darkness in silence, the only sounds Bonnie’s moans from the backseat. Clyde glanced in the rearview mirror and was pleased to see the marshal, Tom Hardy, stroking her hair, trying to comfort her. After a while she seemed to stabilize. Clyde lightened up and began talking. “Did you coppers ever hear much about the two Barrow brothers?” he asked at one point.
“No, I can’t say that I have,” Hardy answered, not wanting to anger Clyde. “We have no record of them in the office,” Corry added.
“Don’t you mugs ever read the papers?” Bonnie whispered.
At a bridge six miles west of the town of Sayre, Clyde stopped and honked the horn. “Everybody out of the car,” W.D. ordered. The officers lined up against a bridge rail. Clyde covered the men while W.D. walked to the far end of the bridge and talked to someone in a car parked in the shadows. By and by he returned with the lethargic Buck Barrow at his side. “When do we get going?” Buck asked.
“What we gonna do with these coppers?” W.D. asked.
Clyde thought a moment. “Let’s march ’em down the river a piece and tie ’em up.” Buck and Clyde herded the two lawmen down toward the river. At the water’s edge Clyde ordered them to stop.
“What would you do if we turned you loose?” he asked.
Hardy said they would head straight home. He tried to look brave. He would not beg for his life.
“Yeah, I know,” Clyde said, his voice heavy and tired. “You’d run your legs off getting to a phone.”
“What’re you gonna do with ’em?” Buck asked. “Want ’em tended to?” He raised his rifle.
Clyde pondered the two men. “You get a bunch of wire off that fence,” he told Buck, motioning toward a string of barbed wire. “Yeah, they’ve been pretty decent cops. But I’ve said I’d never take a cop for a ride and let him live to squeal his head off.”
Buck brought the barbed wire, and together they tied the men to a tree. They stood before the two lawmen a minute, then started back up the slope. After a moment Buck stopped and turned, his rifle pointed at Hardy. There was a long moment of silence.
“Come on,” Clyde finally said. “Let’s get going.”
They let the men live.
Clyde’s elusiveness always owed more to his skill with cars than with guns; he thought nothing of driving a thousand miles in a day, if that’s what it took to outdistance the law. That night he drove the length of Oklahoma, reaching Arkansas around dawn. Bonnie deteriorated, pitching and moaning in her sleep. Just after sunrise they pulled up at the Twin Cities Tourist Camp in Fort Smith. After Blanche registered, Clyde carried Bonnie to a bed. She whimpered for her mother. Clyde drove into town alone and found a doctor named Walter Eberle. He told Eberle that his wife had been injured by an exploding oil stove, and the doctor followed Clyde back to the motel. “This woman needs to be hospitalized,” Eberle said after dressing Bonnie’s burns.
At wit’s end, Clyde drove back to Dallas to get Bonnie’s sister Billie. He reached the Parker home early that evening. Both Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Barrow offered to come to Fort Smith, but Clyde waited instead for Billie, who was at the movies. Clyde paced the Parkers’ living room anxiously, at one point breaking into tears. He hadn’t slept in two days, and the strain was showing. Finally Billie returned and after packing some clothes, left with Clyde.
Ted Hinton, a deputy sheriff who knew Clyde, was on night patrol when he spotted the car heading east. He hesitated because he didn’t recognize Billie. By the time he turned to follow, Clyde was gone. Driving fast through the East Texas night, he and Billie reached Fort Smith at dawn to find Bonnie on the verge of death.
Minneapolis, Minnesota Thursday, June 15 12:45 P.M.
Five days later, as Clyde hovered over Bonnie’s deathbed in Arkansas, the familiar smell of fresh hops and
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