by John Gilmore
“That hole in your side ain’t nothin’ that’s gonna keep you off your feet,” Clyde said. “Get some of the water that’s left and mix some mud to fill in the bullet holes in the car. Won’t do drivin’ around these local folks in a car shot full of holes. We ain’t that far from Platte City, y’know.”
Soon as he’d changed his blood-stained shirt and unloaded a couple blankets from the rear of the car, Clyde drove back on the dirt road leading south to the highway that went through Dexter’s main street. He’d seen the drugstore sign where he’d buy the supplies, but knew there was little he could do to mend Buck’s head. Looking at the wound, he’d seen the brain swelling and pushing fluid and tissue through the two holes in his skull. The same single shot through the head would’ve killed anyone else. But even though Buck was tough, Clyde believed there was little he could do to keep Buck alive. Bonnie was in bad shape, he knew she was trying not to show it. The hole in W.D.’s side and the bullet Bonnie pried out of Clyde’s chest would’ve had anybody being treated in a hospital, but things were different for the Barrows than how they were for others.
Gradually he was off the dirt road and out of Dexfield Park. He soon was on Dexter’s main street and saw the meat and grocery market. Across the road from the town restaurant was the drugstore. A short distance further, he came to a clothing and furniture store, and parked the car a ways from a direct view through the store window.
The owner was at the rear in a small shoe department. He looked up, smiling as Clyde asked to see a pair of shoes. “What I’m wearin’s about worn through,” Clyde said.
As the merchant tried a pair of shoes on Clyde, the merchant’s vest fell open, and Clyde was staring at a deputy sheriff’s badge pinned to the man’s shirt pocket. “I’ll take the shoes like they are,” Clyde said. “Don’t need the box. I can use a couple white shirts I saw up front. I’m in a hurry.”
With the new shoes and shirts, Clyde drove to the meat market that also served as Blohm’s Indian Grill. Again, he parked a short way from the business, and went in more at ease than in the clothing store. He ordered five dinners to take with him, plus hot dogs, a block of ice, buns, and mustard. While his order was being prepared, he walked across the street to the drugstore.
“My name’s Fields,” he told the druggist. “I’m a veterinarian with a couple of yelpin’ patients, if you get what I mean. I can use a couple tubes of morphine.”
“I don’t have a hypodermic,” the druggist said. “Will pills do you okay?”
Clyde said, “Pills are okay. I grind ’em and put ’em in the dogs’ food. They’re hurtin’ in a bad way, and I’d like to save ’em if I can.”
He purchased the morphine, a supply of peroxide, some boric acid, two boxes of cotton, bandages, and a bottle of aspirin. Grinning, he said, “The aspirin’s for me.”
He examined the various medical scissors the druggist had, and selected the pair closest to what he’d described to Bonnie.
Drugstore purchases completed, Clyde crossed the street to place the supplies in the car. He then went into Blohm’s to pick up the dinners, the block of ice, and hot dogs. They didn’t have any marshmallows. Mrs. Blohm said, “You must have a hungry family waitin’.”
“That’s right,” Clyde said.
He asked if he could buy some plates and silverware, but she said, “I don’t sell them, but I can loan them to you if you promise to bring them back?”
“You’ve been very kind,” Clyde said. “I’ll bring ’em all back tomorrow when I’ll be buyin’ more meals like I’ve just done.”
Before leaving the restaurant, Clyde bought a newspaper and two new movie magazines for Bonnie.
At the car he noticed how the mud that he’d used to hide the bullet holes was flaking off. They weren’t so far from the shoot-out in Platte City that two and two couldn’t be put together. He’d seen the badge on the merchant deputy. He’d looked Clyde square in the face, and if there’d been posters floating around to be seen, that lawman would’ve known damn well who he was fitting with a pair of shoes, and looking at eye to eye.
They stayed close to the car. Though late evening had not yet settled in, W.D. held a flashlight close on Blanche’s eyes while Clyde attempted to remove any glass fragments with the surgical scissors he’d bought. He then made up a solution of water and boric acid and had her bathe her eyes.
W.D. had gathered twigs and lumps of old wood without straying far from the campsite. They lit a fire, roasted some hot dogs and ate them with the dinners Clyde had brought. W.D. wolfed his down while Blanche only nibbled the skin off a roasted wiener. Bonnie picked at the food as she thumbed through a movie magazine, illuminating pages by a second flashlight propped up on the running board of the car.
Clyde had ground up two morphine tablets, dissolved them in a thermos cap of water, and had Blanche nurse the fluid between Buck’s lips.
W.D. held his flashlight as Clyde poured hydrogen peroxide into the hole in Buck’s forehead, letting it run out the hole in his temple.
“I gotta tell you this is all we can do,” he told Blanche. “It’s gonna help keep an infection down, but his skull’s busted same as he’s been hit by a car. His brain tissue’s comin’ out the holes right now. Don’t risk coverin’ him up, Blanche, or gettin’ him too hot, or flies or dirt in those wounds. Even bandagin’ his head’s maybe gonna get him infected more.”
“More?” Blanche said. “You thinkin’ he’s got the infection already?” Clyde nodded. She said, “What in God’s name we gonna do?”
“Just leave him restin’ like he is,” Clyde said. “He’s not sufferin’ any pain and won’t with them pills in him. We’ll keep him so he isn’t hurtin’ none, and keepin’ this wound clean’s all we can do.”
Frantic, Blanche said, “If we could only get him to a hospital!”
“They’ll patch him up alright,” W.D. said, “then ship him to any one of three states to get him fried.”
“Shut your trap!” Blanche cried.
Bonnie said, “Any one of us goin’ near a hospital’s enough to get us shot. Buck’s knowin’ that the same as Clyde and all of us.”
Blanche started breathing hard. She threw her head back, but didn’t scream or cry. “Oh, God,” she said, “what’s happened? How did this happen?”
W.D. said, “I reckon we’ve been playin’ the hands we got dealt, Blanche. Ain’t that right, Bud?”
Clyde said, “I don’t think Buck here’s cut out to sit in any congregation, so far as I can see, and what’s goin’ on ain’t any of God’s work.” He looked at W.D. and said, “Come dawn we gotta get us another car that’s not shot full of holes. This one’s okay where it is, but we can’t keep headin’ anywhere in it without gettin’ spotted.”
Another night of trying to sleep, with the blanket wrapped around her, Bonnie inched closer to Clyde. “I got pains shootin’ through my leg and pokin’ into my stomach,” she said. “I don’t feel it’s a healin’ kind of pain ’cause my thigh bone’s like it’s burnin’. I’m so sick with it, I’m gonna throw up.”
Clyde wet a cloth and wiped her face. He gave her a morphine tablet and said, “You’ll sleep better now.”
She clutched his arm. “You got to sleep, daddy. You gotta go to sleep. You can’t be fussin’ over us and not takin’ care of yourself.”
“I’m takin’ care of myself,” he said. “Missin’ you takin’ care of me, but I can’t sleep, honey. Eyes are burnin’ and they won’t stay closed. I’m okay. I’m usin’ the peroxide on my chest, same as pourin’ it on Buck and the hole in W.D., so shut your eyes, honey, and listen to the moon.”
W.D. chuckled. “What’s the moon sayin’, Bud?”
Clyde said, “Moon’s sayin’ you’re gonna get your ass kicked if you don’t sit up straight and get that shotgun off your lap. You’re liable to blow your fuckin’ fool head off—”
“Buck’s movin’,” Blanche said. “He’s shiftin’ around and moanin’.”
“Blanche,” Clyde said, “Buck doe
sn’t know he’s shiftin’ and moanin’ around, so just go to sleep. He won’t be feelin’ any pain so he should stay knocked out a few hours. Soon as the sun’s up we’ll see how he is. Go to sleep. Just get your back against him so he don’t roll off that car seat.”
“His head looks so awful,” Blanche said. “It makes me want to die lookin’ at him.”
Once again, W.D. chuckled. The shotgun was off his lap but in easy reach. He looked at Clyde and said, “I ain’t sleepin’, Bud. I’m layin’ here listenin’ to the bugs in the bushes.”
“To hell with the bugs,” Clyde said. “You’re listenin’ for feet walkin’ in them bushes and not any bugs crawlin’ around. I’m sleepin’ for two hours and then wakin’ up and you go to sleep.”
By dawn, Clyde was sorting through the ammunition boxes, adjusting the guns carefully in the trunk, and, half to himself, said, “These weapons gotta be oiled and cleaned.” Next he took up the hydrogen peroxide and cotton.
With his eyes open, Buck looked at him and said, “When are we goin’?”
“Buck, honey,” Blanche said, “how’re you feelin’? Clyde’s gonna fix your head again.”
“I don’t know how I’m feelin’,” Buck said. “I keep thinkin’ I’m lookin’ at smoke.”
“Let me know when the dancin’ girls take over,” W.D. said.
“Whatever you’re seein’s okay,” Clyde said. “Let’s get your head cleaned and get you fixed. All of us gotta be movin’ on out of here.”
Clyde glanced at Blanche. “We’re too close to where he got shot up.”
“I’m hurtin’ and I wanna see my momma,” Bonnie said. “We go south I can see Billie Jean. Can’t we go back and see our family? I want to see my mother—don’t you wanna see the family?”
“I do,” W.D. said. “I want to see my mom. They all think I’m gettin’ plugged down like a coyote.”
Clyde said nothing as he carefully poured peroxide into the hole in Buck’s head, letting it seep out the second hole and be absorbed by the cotton Blanche was holding. He said, “Buck’s gotta be looked at by someone knowin’ more than I do about head wounds, so goin’ south might be the best bet we got. Right now, Boy and me’re takin’ off to the other side of Dexter for another car. Bigger town that way.”
W.D. and Clyde were in the car as Bonnie limped around to Clyde’s window. “Daddy,” she said, “I love you with my heart and soul, and I’ll go anyplace, you know it. But we can find somethin’ in Texas, can’t we? Won’t we be safe, them not findin’ us like we were at the Wichita cabin?”
Clyde nodded. He kissed Bonnie’s hand. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “I don’t like leavin’ you both here with Buck as he is, but there’s nobody gonna bother you. You’ll be okay. I promise you that. We’ll be back right away. Gotta have Boy here to bring this car back. Then we’ll go, honey. We’ll go to Texas and see your momma. Y’all relax and eat them hot dogs. Soon as we get another car, the boy’s comin’ back and I’ll go get us more grub. Maybe some cake and pie, and bottles of soda pop.”
Driving along the road out of Dexfield Park, Clyde was smelling his hand. He said to W.D., “Buck’s head’s infected. I can smell it. Didn’t you smell him leakin’ that infection?” W.D. shook his head. Clyde said, “I’m talkin’ about my brother, boy—my flesh and kin, and he’s maybe not gonna make it.”
W.D. looked at him. “You thinkin’ he’s gonna die?”
“That’s what I said. And I’m worried right now ’bout him dyin’ without us there and Blanche havin’ a fit. Bonnie can handle it, but we take good care of ’em.”
W.D. nodded thoughtfully. “Guess we better get us a pickax and shovel, ’cause we can’t be haulin’ him around dead.”
Thirty-Two
Clyde was awake before the sun was shining. He’d packed the second car, loaded the guns and ammunition. Bonnie and Blanche were still asleep. Buck was making sounds. Clyde knew they were the sounds of someone shot through the head that didn’t die. What would he do if Buck died in the car? Could he make it back to Texas with a corpse in the car? He knew Blanche wouldn’t leave him. Bonnie’d be stuck with a hysterical woman grabbing at a dead man.
W.D. was cooking the last of the hot dogs for breakfast, and asked Clyde, “You want a hot dog?” Clyde shook his head. Bonnie was up and folding the blanket. She seemed in pain. She looked sick.
Clyde said, “Honey, soon as we get outta here we’re headin’ south. Gonna see your momma.” Bonnie had the dishes and box of flatware ready to be returned to the Dexter restaurant. She looked at Clyde, about to say something to him, but he wasn’t moving. His head was turned in the direction of the woods. He said, “You hear that?”
It came in a flash—the sound of heavy feet sneaking up at the same speed through the brush. Clyde’s eyes swept the tree-studded space before him and then he saw them—half a dozen, maybe more, armed with rifles and shotguns.
“Goddamn laws!” he yelled. “Everybody get in the car!”
“Our stuff’s here—” Bonnie said.
“Leave it! Let’s go!” Blanche and W.D. scrambled to get Buck into the rear seat of the car as Clyde grabbed a Browning Automatic Rifle (called a BAR) and fired over the heads of the approaching men. They dropped to the ground while Clyde’s shots tore at the tress and branches. The first shots from the men whizzed past Clyde or hit the rear of the car. Clyde sent off another round that slowed the approach. One man was lagging behind like he’d been hit by a ricocheting blast. Two had dropped to the ground again but kept firing from prone positions. The shots busted through the back window of the car, getting Blanche screaming and hunching down over Buck.
W.D. was hit by shotgun pellets as he ran to the car, the buckshot knocking him down. He got up fast, already bleeding, helped Bonnie into the car, then went around to the driver’s door. Soon as he climbed in, he tried starting the engine. He couldn’t start the car.
Clyde rushed around the car, sending off another volley, then pushed W.D. over on the seat and got behind the wheel while Bonnie had scooted off the seat, her head lower than the passenger window and the top of the front seat. The laws were still firing at the car—most of them missing the target. In a second Clyde had the car accelerating away from their shots and pellets peppering them, but was suddenly receiving gunfire from another direction. He skidded to a halt, threw the gearshift into reverse, and, with wheels spinning, headed into a turn just as a bullet tore into his left arm. He couldn’t control the wheel. “Grab it!” he told W.D., and as they were still turning, the car collided with a fallen log, hanging the bumper and one front wheel. Clyde climbed out and let W.D. out, who fell again, but then jumped to his feet to free the bumper from the log while Clyde raced the engine, trying to back the car out.
“It’s no use!” W.D. cried.
“Get in the other car!” Clyde ordered, and the three others climbed out, Bonnie helping Blanche with Buck and ducking to avoid the gunfire. Hunkering down in front of the stuck car, they watched for a moment as a second team of laws opened fire on the second car—bursting the windshield, smashing windows, and blowing out the tires. Clyde said, “They’re shootin’ it out from under us. Tryin’ to get us boxed in, but we gotta get in the woods—hide in the brush while I go for another car!”
They could hear dogs barking in the distance, and gripping himself where the pellets had punctured, W.D. said, “They’re comin’ to finish us! We’re leavin’ a trail of blood behind us—it’s drippin’ off your hand, Bud.”
“We gotta get in the woods,” Clyde said, grabbing Bonnie as she stumbled.
“I’m hit—they hit me,” she said, gripping at her torso. “Got me with buckshot.…” Clyde held her, half-carrying her as they disappeared into the woods.
Buck yelled and started to fall. “They got me again—got me in the fuckin’ back!”
“Oh, God!” Blanche said. “The blood’s comin’ out of him!”
Sinking to his knees, Buck said, “I’m fuckin’ done for. Y’all go on.
”
“Keep going, brother,” Clyde said, pulling Buck to his feet.“Let’s go!”
“He can’t walk!” Blanche cried.
Clyde told W.D. to help Bonnie, then said to Blanche, “Get on that side of Buck and we’ll walk him. Grab him, Blanche.”
“I can’t carry him,” she said. “I can’t see and I haven’t got any strength left.”
“I’m walkin’!” Buck said. “I’ll fuckin’ run if you want!”
“Come on, brother. You gotta hide,” Clyde said. “I’m goin’ over the bridge to get a car.”
“Where?” Blanche said. “Where’s there a car?”
“Across the river on the other side of this hill. There’s farms and cars. You just keep outta sight.” W.D. was half-carrying Bonnie as they made their way through the woods, both bleeding through their clothes. Clyde said, “We gotta go fast ’cause those dogs’ll be on us.”
Weakly helping to drag the bleeding Buck, Blanche cried, “I can’t go any more! I can’t lift him and if he goes much more he’ll bleed to death.”
“Hide here till I can get back,” Clyde said. “We can’t do nothin’ without gettin’ outta here.”
Blanche sunk down onto her knees beside Buck, now on the ground. “They’re gonna get us,” she said. “I can’t even see!”
“You gotta hide!” Clyde said, pulling Buck up while Blanche supported Buck from the other side. “Get on the other side of that clearin’. You gotta hide, Blanche, there’s no more talkin’. These billies get up here, they aren’t talkin’—they’re shootin’.”
Buck lay on the ground, hidden behind a fallen tree trunk. “I’m done for, Clyde. Take Blanche outta here—”
“No!” Blanche cried, crouching down beside Buck. “I’m not goin’ without him,” she said. “No use anybody talkin’.”
Clyde told them to stay hidden as best they could. He instructed Bonnie and W.D. to burrow themselves into the underbrush. “We’ll make it,” he told them. Armed with only a pistol, weak from the gunshot to his left arm, he made his way to the top of the hill overlooking the narrow river. Still hearing gunshots from the direction they’d come, he scrambled down the hill, catching sight of two men at the foot of the bridge.