by John Gilmore
Clyde nodded. “That’s it,” Clyde said. “I’ll give a couple honks on the horn and you answer. I’ll flash the headlights, and you flash back three flashes.”
As Buck and Blanche drove off in a separate car, Billie Jean told Clyde, “W.D.’s in Dallas and wants to go with you. I think he’s crazy, but he’s swearin’ that’s what he wants to do.”
“He’s not crazy,” Clyde said. “What he is he’s a pain in the ass.”
“Accordin’ to him,” Billie Jean said, “you’re just about the most important and famous fellow in the world. He told me to tell you he’ll be waitin’ for y’all right now.”
The trail from the family get-together to a tourist camp in Vernon, Texas, with W.D. on board, grew vague and clouded as time rolled into June. Bonnie would later tell her sister that Clyde frequently talked about his dead-set plan of “bustin’ into Eastham prison.” She said, “Nights in the cabin he keeps a weak lightbulb burnin’, sometimes shinin’ right into his face.” To block the light, Bonnie slept with a blouse, a towel, or another sheet covering her face. If Clyde fell asleep, she’d unscrew the bulb. “When W.D.’s not sleepin’ on the floor on that mat we got off a swing,” she said, “he’ll be sittin’ at the window, the shade angled so he can see out, and feelin’ he isn’t any longer a pain in the ass.”
If instead of a cabin, they stayed hidden in the woods, Bonnie would later tell her sister, “The only light’s comin’ from the moon or stars while we’re sleepin’ in the car, way deep in those woods. You hear the night critters makin’ sounds, lonely sort of sounds like they’re lost out there. Sometimes that’s the best of times, the moon bein’ full and so bright through the trees. All them stars shinin’ like a ceilin’ of jewels. Those times nobody knows what I’m thinkin’ or feelin’, and that’s the way I like it. Last week I woke up with a deer stickin’ his head in the window. My sittin’ up and touchin’ his nose scared him. He banged his antlers on the top of the car door like he couldn’t get himself free, yankin’ his head like he was, and pullin’ back. Clyde’d jumped up and got the shotgun, thinkin’ the laws or someone’s on us.
“Sometimes I’m drivin’ so Clyde’ll shut his eyes, but most of the time he’s drivin’ and we’re travelin’ those back roads like a devil shot right outta the heavens.”
Billie Jean had said, “Honey, you now seein’ yourself as a devil?” Bonnie stared at her sister and didn’t say anything.
Saturday night, ten days into June and speeding north on the Texas highway they raced past the town of Wellington, holding the five-window V-8 coupe at an even eighty, Bonnie’s head had bowed, her chin at her chest and both hands in her lap, fingers curled inwards. Clyde glanced at her. She’d dropped off talking about her mother and what she’d said during the visit with the folks.
W.D. was asleep on the rear seat, three guns on the floor, and two rifles in the trunk. Clyde’s eyes were getting heavy. He thought of pulling over, waking W.D. and letting him get behind the wheel for a while. He’d put Bonnie in the rear so she could sleep better. There was still time before meeting Buck at the Oklahoma border.
He felt a sting in his left eye. Rubbing it, he found something had blown in and struck the far corner of his eye. Again he turned his head and looked over at Bonnie. He’d later say he hadn’t seen a detour sign or where the earth had been excavated for a new bridge to reach across the Red River. It was fast, the highway veering to the old bridge, and racing straight ahead, Clyde missed the detour.
Too late he saw what he’d done, but hit the brakes, the car swerving, skidding, then sprung from the road and seemed to hang in the air sideways for a second, then plunged a dozen feet towards the dry riverbed.
W.D. was flung out of the rear seat, seemed to hang wedged against the inside of the roof for a moment, then the crash. Dirt, dust, smoke and gasoline spewed everywhere. The car caught fire. Bonnie cried out, pushed half-forward with her legs somehow stuck beneath the dashboard. Fire was erupting inside the car, and Bonnie screamed, “It’s burning me! Get me out! I can’t get out!”
Smoke, fire and the biting stink of battery acid filled the interior as Clyde struggled to free Bonnie. A moment later he saw two strangers scrambling down the embankment and running to the car. They began pulling at Bonnie’s door that was stuck. Clyde felt for the shotgun, but then reached across Bonnie and unlocked her door. It was damaged—hard to open. Bonnie kept screaming. Clyde thought she would’ve called the appearance of the two men “a stroke of magical luck.”
They yanked and pried at the damaged car door while Clyde struggled out on the driver’s side, came around and helped the men working Bonnie free from beneath the burning dashboard. W.D. had squeezed out of the wreck, staggered back half conscious from his collision with the inside of the car’s roof. He quickly rescued the guns and ammo from the car, then opened the trunk and gathered what he could carry.
Bonnie was screaming that her leg was “fryin’.”
Clyde cried, “Hurry up! Get her out!”
One of the strangers noticed the guns W.D. was gathering from the sprung-open trunk of the car. Clyde kept yelling, “Get her out! Get her out!”
Then they had her. She looked like she’d passed out. All three managed to free her as the smoke and fumes thickened, and as they lifted her to be carried, she started struggling and kicking. “It’s alright!” Clyde told her. The skin of her leg was reddened and blackish from the burn and the flesh looked torn. He then looked at the two men. “Where’d you come from?”
“We were on the porch of the house when you went off the road,” one man said. “We’re right up the slope. We’ll fetch a doctor—”
“No doctor!” Clyde said. “We’ll take care of her. Let’s go—let’s get her to your house.”
Both men carried Bonnie up the embankment, but kept glancing at the guns W.D. struggled to carry until they reached the small house overlooking the riverbed. A few scant trees surrounded the porch where two women were waiting, one holding a baby that was crying. The older woman stepped off the porch, and seeing Bonnie sagging in their arms, cried, “My God! Bring her inside! This girl injured bad.”
Moaning and jerking, Bonnie was placed on a bed in a small middle room where the only light flickered from a kerosene lantern on a table. Clyde looked at the others: the younger woman with the baby, and a third man. “What’s your name?” he asked. The man said his name was Alonzo. Clyde reached out a hand, but seeing the guns overloading W.D., the man stiffened and stepped back.
Clyde didn’t answer. He turned to the woman at the bed with Bonnie. “Mister,” the woman said, “this girl’s burned bad, and needs a doctor—”
“—no doctor,” Clyde said. “You take care of her, fix her with whatever medicine you got. We’ll handle the rest as soon as we get out of here. Just attend to her as best you can.”
Alonzo said, “She could lose her leg with that kind of damage.”
“You two ladies ease her pain,” Clyde said, “and we’ll be on our way. All we need’s a car. You got a car?”
“Who are you?” the younger man asked. “What are these guns for?”
Her face straining with pain, and almost incoherently, Bonnie cried out, “You know who we are? This is Clyde Barrow you’re talkin’ to! That’s who he is.…”
Clyde grabbed the shotgun from W.D. “Nobody’s gonna get hurt in here,” he said. “The rest of you stay put in that room and nobody make any funny moves.” To Bonnie, he said, “You hold on, sugar, and let these ladies get you cleaned up.”
Looking up at Clyde, the woman cried, “This is an awful burn on this girl, she’s got a terrible gash and’s needin’ more than cleanin’ up.”
“We’ll get her fixed okay,” Clyde said firmly. He placed his hand on Bonnie’s forehead. “Lay here, honey, and I’ll figure this out. The damn road—”
“—we missed a detour sign,” W.D. said. “We messed up.”
“Shut up!” Clyde told him, and turned to the others in the front room. He lo
oked at them, then toward the kitchen. “Where’s that other guy who was standin’ over there?” The men didn’t answer. Clyde said to W.D., “Go find that fella.” To the men he said, “No one else goes anywhere.” Holding the shotgun, he asked Alonzo, “Where’s your car?”
“My car don’t run,” the man said. “There’s the other one around the back.”
“That other guy’s gone for the car!” Clyde told W.D. “Go stop him! We need that car.”
W.D. hurried through the kitchen and out the back door. Clyde went into the front door, gripping the shotgun. Struggling, Bonnie tried to come off the bed, her bloody dress soiled and burned. Blood was leaking down the lower part of her leg. The woman tried to hold her down, but dazed, Bonnie said, “What’s happened to me?”
“Lay back down,” Clyde told her. “We’re gonna get your leg cleaned and fixed and gettin’ out of here.”
Coming up the porch and through the front door, W.D. said, “No car, Bud. Nobody out there. I didn’t hear any car.”
“He must’ve pushed it to the road and jumped it,” Clyde said. “Bonnie can’t walk and we can’t get outta here carryin’ her. Gotta figure out where we’ll carry her to.”
“We’ll get a car,” W.D. assured. “Maybe he’s gone for a doctor.”
“Like hell he has,” Clyde said. To the older woman he said, “Where’s that boy gone? Where’s he run off to?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “A neighbor’s. He don’t like guns.” She looked up at Clyde. “None of us like guns, but I’m tellin’ you this girl better get to a hospital. I’m near seein’ the bone in her leg.”
“Clean it!” Clyde said. “Fix her and we’ll wait. Bring what medicine you got in here and bandages or clean cloths.”
“I can’t fix her!” the woman said. “I’m no doctor.”
“You got bandages, don’t you?” he said. “You got some clean towels or somethin’ for bandages? Now do what I’m tellin’ you.” He turned to the others. “Y’all stay where you are and keep quiet. We’ll leave this lamp here while she’s fixin’ the girl.”
Turning back to the women, he said, “Get all that battery acid off her skin and get me some string and a big needle like you use on a turkey. She’ll be okay. I guarantee you.” He stepped to the bed and asked Bonnie, “How is it, sugar? I’m sick as hell over what’s happened to you and us gettin’ trapped out here. Just rest now, let these ladies get you cleaned and we’ll get help when we get outta here.”
“I just hope I got a leg left,” Bonnie said. She moaned painfully. “I feel like I busted ribs, daddy. I’m not dyin’ yet, am I?”
“You aren’t gonna die no how,” Clyde said, then asked the woman, “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“We’re the Pritchards,” she said. “Myself and my husband, and our son-in-law—”
“—who’s run off?” Clyde said. “Where’s he gone to?”
“Mister,” the woman said, “I don’t know, but yes, this girl could lose her leg if she isn’t attended to. I can’t fix her like you’re sayin’. We can wash her with towels and water and I’ve got ointment and baking soda—”
Bonnie cried out. Clyde told the woman, “Bring all what you’ve got, you and this lady helpin’. Get me that needle and cord and the rest in a sack. You got a sack?” She nodded. “Well, get it, then! Don’t just sit here belly-achin’.” He touched Bonnie’s cheek. “You got dirt all over you, honey. You hold still till these ladies get you cleaned off. I’ll fix where you’re hurtin’ soon as we get out of here. That damn road coulda killed every one of us. We’re lucky as hell your two fellas climbed down to help us.”
The women bathed Bonnie’s leg, her face and her arms, and kept cool-soaked cloths on the burned skin. Her upper leg was swelling and blistered to her knee.
When the women had done all they could for Bonnie, Clyde ushered them into the front room where W.D. was standing guard, watching the man and the baby. Clyde returned to the bed, sat on the edge for a moment and took Bonnie’s hand. “It’s goin’ to be alright, angel. I’m goin’ to see you’re taken care of proper soon as we’re outta here. Shut your eyes now and rest.”
“It hurts too much to rest,” she said. “I never felt any pain like this.…”
“It kills me to see you hurt,” Clyde said. “Just kills me in my guts.”
He stayed on the bed with her, stroking Bonnie’s head. She kept wrinkling her face in pain and cried out when Clyde moved from the bed. He went to W.D. in the front room and said, “You’ve gotta go for a car, and nobody’s goin’ to be hurt. You go down to that road and flag us a car. Bring it back here.”
“What about the people in the car?” W.D. asked.
“You got your fuckin’ gun, so get ’em here with the car. We’ll leave them with these folks.” W.D. started out the door but Clyde suddenly grabbed him, yanking him back inside. “Listen—” he said. “That’s a car we’re hearin’ right now.”
“Maybe that guy’s come back,” W.D. said.
They both listened to the sound of the approaching car. Moving against the wall, Clyde glanced out the corner of a window. “Headlights are turned off,” he said. “They’re goin’ around the house to the back door. Let’s get out of this room,” They heard the car stop beyond the kitchen door. No more sounds.
W.D. whispered, “They’re gettin’ outta the car.”
“Fuckin’ laws,” Clyde said, then whispered to the others, “You folks, sit quiet, say a lady’s been hurt in the car, and don’t say nothin’ else ’cause we’re right outside around front and drawin’ a bead on anyone talkin’. I wanna get out of here with nobody else gettin’ hurt.”
Clyde handed W.D. the shotgun, withdrew the pistol from his belt and pulled W.D. through the front door. Outside, they backed against the side wall as two men stood for moments in the kitchen, then entered the front room. For a moment they stood staring at the others in the room. “Hello,” one man said. “I know you folks, you know me. Where’s the folks who were down in that wreck?”
Alonzo pointed to the middle room, saying, “I know you, Sheriff Corry. The girl that was in the accident’s restin’ in the room there.”
Mrs. Pritchard said, “She’s on the bed, Sheriff, and she’s hurt bad.”
Looking strangely at the people for a moment, the sheriff and the second man went into the middle room.
From outside, Clyde watched through the window as the sheriff asked Bonnie, “How bad you hurt, young lady?”
Moaning, Bonnie said, “My leg’s hurt…”
The sheriff lifted the bloody sheet and felt Bonnie’s pulse. He asked, “Where did your friends go, young lady?” She moaned. The sheriff said, “You had two fellas with you?” She didn’t answer. He looked at the second man, then said, “She’s not conscious.”
“Jesus,” the second man said, “she’s got some damage. She better get to the hospital.” He looked back into the front room. “Where’s the other two fellas who were with this girl? She’s in too much pain—passin’ out.”
The second man lifted the kerosene lamp from the table and both returned to the front room. He asked the Pritchards, “Where’s the two fellas?” The baby started crying again. No one said anything.
Pritchard looked toward the front door. “They’ve gone outside.”
The man holding the lantern raised the light as the sheriff opened the front door and stepped outside, followed by the second man. They looked to the far side of the house but then froze as Clyde said, “Hands up, boys,” and pressed the pistol against the back of the man’s neck. “Don’t move,” he said. “You’re both covered.”
“We’re not movin’,” the sheriff said. “Nobody’s movin’. Take it easy—”
“—shut up!” Clyde said, and told W.D., “Frisk these boys—this sheriff’s got a gun in his holster.” He carefully took the lamp out of the man’s hand and set it on the porch.
W.D. lifted the sheriff’s gun and got a revolver from the second man, saying, “This one’
s got a marshal’s badge, Bud.”
“Who’re you?” Clyde asked the man,
“My name’s Hardy. I’m the marshal.”
Clyde said, “Boy, get their handcuffs. Now, fellas, bring your hands down slow and this boy’ll cuff—one to one. Make any fuckin’ move besides what you’re told, you’ll be meat for the crows.” Clyde stuck the sheriff’s pistol into his belt, and told W.D., “Go get Sis off that bed and get that old fella to help you bring her out the kitchen to these boys’ car in back.”
W.D. nodded, cradling the shotgun, and went back into the house, carrying the kerosene lamp.
Clyde could hear W.D. telling the man to get up and help him bring the girl out back. “Now,” Clyde said to the marshal and sheriff, “you boys just keep lookin’ straight ahead and lead the way to your car.” He pushed the muzzle of the pistol between the marshal’s shoulder blades, and said, “I’ve just pulled the hammer back on my revolver, and damnit to hell, this one’s a hair trigger you gotta not breathe on, so you fellas walk easy and live a little longer.”
“What’ve you got in mind?” Corry said. “What’re you gonna do with us?”
“I’m gonna put you in your car, both of you in the backseat since you’re now Siamese twins with your cuffs, and we’re all goin’ for a ride.”
Bonnie was at the back door, held up by W.D. and Alonzo, who was also holding the sack. Bonnie looked hazy, suffering, her face pale and pained. “Get her in the front,” Clyde told W.D., “and these boys in the back. You help Sis but keep a bead on these two. Give me my shotgun.”
Bonnie moved painfully into the car, helped by W.D. and Alonzo, each step on her injured leg causing her to whimper in pain. She collapsed onto the car seat, and W.D. placed her in the middle. Her head was drooping forward. W.D. said, “Keys are right in here.”
Alonzo said to Clyde, “You aren’t takin’ me with you?”
Clyde said, “You wanna go for a ride?” The man shook his head. “Go on back in your house,” Clyde told him. “Thank your wife and the other lady for helpin’ like they did.”