Fugitives- The True Story of Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker

by Emma Parker

  By the time we got the gun and started back to Waco, I was simply shivering with fright. I felt that everybody we passed knew we had a gun and were going to stage a jail break. Bonnie wasn't scared, though. She put on two belts, one under her dress to hold her slip tight to her body, and another on top. She slipped that horrible gun between her breasts in the pocket the two belts made.

  We drove back to the jail, and Bonnie asked to see Clyde. The jailer said Bonnie had already been up to see Clyde once that day, and if she went up again, she must not stay long. Bonnie, backing off all the time, so that he wouldn't touch her and feel the gun, promised him that if she could see Clyde for just a minute she wouldn't bother the jailer again for a long time — and believe me, she meant that. It surely was going to be goodbye if she got the gun to Clyde. The jailer let her go up, and I sat down there perspiring as if it were summer time.

  Finally Bonnie came back downstairs. We left as quickly as we could, and neither of us had anything to say. We drove home and went inside the house, locked the doors, pulled down the shades, and just sat there. The hours seemed like a million years. Finally it got dark, and we fixed a little supper and ate it. Luckily, my husband was out of town, for I'd never have been able to keep him from knowing something was wrong. We were both frightened now. Scared they'd shoot Clyde down when he tried to make his get-away; scared Clyde might shoot the officers, and be electrocuted or sent up for life. We didn't sleep all night, and at daybreak, Bonnie asked me to get a paper. There it was — the whole story. Clyde Barrow, Emory Abernathy, and William Turner had walked out of the jail to parts unknown. Nothing was said about where they got the gun.

  Bonnie had a big cry after she read it. Then she straightened her face, and said: "Let's eat, Mary." After breakfast, Bonnie said, "I'll go to Dallas on the late interurban, Mary." We lay down on the bed, but though neither of us had closed our eyes all the night before, sleep wouldn't come now. Bonnie talked and talked — always about Clyde. He wasn't a bad boy, she said; he just hadn't a chance. If he got out of this mess and safely away, she'd get a divorce, go to him, and marry him. They would settle in some far off place and everything would be all right. Clyde wasn't ever going to do anything to get into trouble again. He had promised her and she knew he meant it, because he loved her. Over and over again — she couldn't talk about anything else.

  Finally, we fixed something else to eat, and lay down again. It was dark now, but we had no lights on. We kept saying we must get some sleep, but we never did. Along about 9:30, we heard somebody outside and looked out the window. Two men were walking up the sidewalk. Bonnie began to tremble and I was on the verge of hysterics. They started pounding on the door. We lay there and listened and shivered. They pounded and pounded. They went across the street and sat on the curb and watched the house. After half an hour of this, they came back and pounded some more. It was nearly midnight before they finally went away.

  Bonnie was afraid to take the interurban, bus, or train after that. She knew officers would be watching the stations to arrest her. At four o'clock in the morning I drove her out on the highway and put her out. She was going to "thumb it" into Dallas. She certainly was a forlorn looking little thing, starting off down that road alone in the cold gray dawn. I felt sorry for her, but I felt sorry for myself, too. I went back home and to bed, a nervous wreck.

  Next day about noon two boys drove up to the house in a truck and asked for Bonnie. I said she'd gone to Dallas. "Well," one of them explained, "if you all hadn't stayed out all night last night, she could have had a ride with us. Her mother told us she was here, so we came by last night to get her, and boy, did we sit on that curb till it felt like the Rock of Gibraltar! What sort of a party did you two go on, anyway?"

  I never did explain to them just the sort of party Bonnie and I had been on. I had an idea, that while the subject matter might be interesting, Bonnie and I would both be better off if I just let the idea ride that we'd spent the night out.

  Mrs. Parker Continues

  When Mary related this story to me two and a half years later, I clearly understood the significant part it had played in the shaping of Bonnie's future life in regard to law and order. Had I known about her part in the jail break, I should have undoubtedly conducted myself differently on several occasions, and used the most drastic methods possible to separate them before it was too late, even if it meant estranging Bonnie from me. I would have sent her away; I would have done anything, rather than permit her to continue in a path which could have but one ending — death and dishonor.

  I'm sure this jail break and her own rather romantic and daring part in it made a lasting impression on Bonnie. In the first place, it had been accomplished so easily that she had never been suspected; in the second place, I'm sure that Clyde was very proud of her for being so plucky and courageous in circumventing justice and helping him get out of jail. He sent her a wire as soon as he got well away. The telegram came from Nokomis, Ill., and said that all was well. It also asked her to tell his mother, and sent her his love and a promise to write. I'm sure that he praised her highly for her courage and pluck.

  Bonnie was a dramatist, born so. She loved being the center of things, and above everything else, she wished to please Clyde. I'm sure that she was flattered to think that she had measured up to his standards with a daring and grit which even the famous bandit, Belle Starr, couldn't have surpassed. But as I have said, a girl has two sides, one for the other fellow and one for her mother. I knew none of these things, just as I had known none of Clyde's mix-ups with the law till the officers came to arrest him at my house.

  When Bonnie came home, she had nothing to say about Clyde's jail break, though she was very nervous. She grabbed the papers the instant they hit the porch, and on one or two occasions, went downtown to catch the early editions. The fugitives' freedom was short lived. They were captured March 18th in Middleton, Ohio, after they had robbed a dry cleaning establishment and the offices of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. They refused to divulge their true names, but the finger print system solved the mystery. The three were returned to Waco in a few days, and Clyde's entire sentence of fourteen years was invoked against him. He was to go to "The Walls," as they called Huntsville, at almost any instant, but for some reason, he was not taken till April 21, 1930.

  I have none of Bonnie's letters to Clyde during the next two years, but I do have several of Clyde's to her. The first was in April on the 19th, two days before he left for Huntsville. Evidently they had had a spat over something, as the letter indicates. Clyde's letters were often badly misspelled, but his sentiments were still good and honest where Bonnie was concerned, at least, and his writings seem to indicate that he was contemplating doing the right thing when he got out of prison.

  April 19, 1930.

  Waco, Texas.

  Dear Baby:

  I just read your sweet letter, and I sure was glad to get it for I am awfully lonesome and blue. Why did you say you didn't know whether I would accept it or not?

  Now, honey, you know darn well I didn't mean what I said in my last letter. I'm just jealous of you and can't help it. And why shouldn't I be? If I was as sweet to you as you are to me, you would be jealous too.

  Say, sugar, these loco guys are making so much noise I can't write, so I will finish this tomorrow.

  After a long lonesome night, I will try and finish. It's Easter Sunday and I sure wish I was outside with you. Gosh, honey, I bet we could have a good time today. Where were you last Easter, honey, and who was with you? Last Easter Frank Clause and I were together, as near as I can remember. Mrs. Vaughn sent me an Easter card yesterday but it wasn't near as pretty as the one you sent me last week.

  Well, dear, I sure hope you don't have to work on Sunday. Well, you ask me if I wanted Bob to come up. You got my last letter, didn't you? That is all I am depending on now. I don't think I can get my time cut any. If Bob hasn't already left, send him as soon as you get this. I think maybe he can do me some good.

&nbs
p; Sugar, I don't see why I didn't leave you a car so you could come down to see me on Sunday. This is such a pretty day and it is sure going to be a long lonesome one for me.

  Well, baby, how are you liking your job by now? And have any of those hop-heads got smart with you? If they do, just remember the name, because I wont be in this joint all my life.

  Just a minute, honey, and let me see what has happened up here. It's all right, baby, everything is o.k. I thought for awhile all of them were dead, for it was so quiet, but Frank is reading, and Pat is sick; two of them are asleep and Lee is sitting by the window looking out and wishing he was outside. This is the first time this place has been quiet since I've been here and I'm hoping they wont wake up till I get through writing.

  Honey, you said you would do anything I wanted you to do. Well, I'll tell you what I want you to do. Just be a good little girl and always love me. If you'll do those two things, that is all that is necessary, except coming to see me and that is the main thing right now.

  Say, Sugar, you ought to see me. I've got on Frank's suspenders, and I'm sure a darb of the season, no fooling. Honey, if I could just spend one week with you, I'd be ready to die, for I love you and I don't see how I can live without you. Say, honey, when I get down yonder and get to thinking of you, I'll jump right up and start towards Big D. I may not get very far, but I'll sure get caught trying.

  Well, old dear, here's Bud Russell. I don't know whether he's going to take us up or not, but I guess he will. If he does, be sure and come down as soon as you can. Honey, I don't know whether they're going to take me or not, but if they do, do what I told you. Come when you can . . .

  No, honey, they aren't going to take me this time and I am sure glad, for maybe I can get a chance to get my time cut again. Honey, Uncle Bud may come back tomorrow, but if he doesn't, I'll write to you. And if he does, I'll write to you as soon as I get to the Walls.

  But I hope he doesn't come back for awhile.

  Well, old sugar, I don't know any news, so I guess I will close. Send Bob as soon as you can. I love you.

  Clyde.

  P. S. When mama comes back up here, if she comes before I go down, tell her to bring me some old kind of shirt, so I can send this one home. It's too good to throw away. I love you.

  Two days later Uncle Bud came back, and Clyde went down to The Walls for his stay of fourteen years. At first Bonnie was inconsolable. She cried constantly, and wrote long letters to Clyde every night. She had to work, and one can't wear grief like a garment and hold a job. Besides, she was a thoroughly normal girl, and in a few months began to take a new lease on life, and a new interest in the people about her. I don't know just when she stopped writing to Clyde, but I imagine it was along in the summer of 1930. Neither do I know just why she again took up the correspondence. I have two letters written in December of that year, from Clyde to her which indicate clearly that the correspondence had been broken off for some time, and that Bonnie herself started writing again. In these two letters, quoted below, Clyde addresses Bonnie as his wife. This was necessary, according to prison rules, if he was to receive her letters. The men were allowed to write only to members of their families.

  December 11, 1930.

  Dearest little wife:

  Just received your sweet and welcome letter, and believe me, it really gave me a great surprise to hear from you. Why honey, I couldn't hardly believe my eyes when I glanced at your handwriting on the envelope.

  So I took it and looked it over carefully and finally decided it was from you.

  Listen, Bonnie, who the h--- told you all those lies on me? Sugar, you know I didn't say anything like that about my little blue-eyed girl. Honey, I love you more than I love my own self and just because I have fourteen years is no sign I will be here always. Mother went to Waco to talk to the judge, and he said he would help her get my sentence cut back to two years. If everything works out like I hope it will, I wont have to stay away from my baby much longer.

  Say, honey, I know your mother thinks I didn't want to answer her letter, but you see, Sugar, I am not at the same camp I was when she wrote me, and at this camp you can't write to anyone except your family. Be sure and tell her how it is. I am on Eastham Farm No. 2 and I get my mail at the same address, Weldon, Texas, Box 16, Camp No. 2, so be sure and answer this as soon as ever you get it, for honey, I sure do need your letters to pass away these long lonesome days.

  I would give anything on earth if I could get one more good look at my little blue-eyed baby. Honey, I haven't even got a picture of you, for when I left Camp No. 1 it was unexpected, and I didn't have time to get your picture, so please send me another if you have any.

  Well, baby, I am going to close for this time, and if you answer this, I will write more next time. I send all my love to you from your daddy that loves you.

  Clyde Barrow.

  December 21, 1930.

  To my darling little wife:

  Hello, honey. I received your most sweet and welcome letter last night and honey, you'll never know how glad I was to get it, for now I can enjoy Christmas. Sugar, what made you think I wouldn't answer your letters? Why, darling, you know I love you more than anything, and you haven't done anything to me. Listen, Sugar, mother is not mad at you. She was down here last week and she asked me about you. Said she would like to see you, and I told her she didn't want to see you half as much as I did, which is really true for I am just crazy to see my little blue-eyed girl.

  You asked me if I heard from Frank or Gladys. No, dear, I haven't and I don't care to, for they don't care anything about me and I am not mad about them. All I ever want for is you, Sugar, and I would give my right eye to see you. And if you can come I want you to come and see me. I can get L.C. to bring you, for I know you haven't the money to come down here with. But it wont be like that always darling. Some day I will be out there with you and then we can be happy again.

  Sugar, mother just about got my time cut to two years, and I have been down here eight months already.

  If she does get it cut, it wont take long for me to shake it off. So you just make it the best you can till I do, and then let me do the rest.

  Well, old dear, I don't know any news as usual, so be a sweet little girl and write your daddy real often, because I really enjoy your sweet little letters. Tell everyone hello for me, and I wish you a merry, merry Christmas. Answer real soon. I send all my love to you.

  Your loving husband,

  Clyde Barrow.

  P. S. Please send me one of your pictures.

  Bonnie didn't talk to us about Clyde as much as she had at first, and a few months later she began going with a young man whom I shall call Tom. I was more relieved than I would have admitted to anyone, and thought that Tom was the answer to Bonnie's problem, after all.

  When Clyde came home from jail the next year, I found out I'd been mistaken.

  Nell Goes On With the Story

  My mother never ceased in her efforts to get Clyde's sentence cut from fourteen to two years. For many months it looked as if she would not be successful. Things had become complicated for Clyde before this was accomplished. Clyde himself had no knowledge that the sentence was to be cut until just a few days beforehand, and he was very discouraged and blue.

  Of course, prison life is no picnic. It isn't supposed to be. Clyde was just twenty-one when he went to jail, and despite his criminal tendencies to steal, and his disregard for law and order, he was still the sweet and likable brother I had grown up with. But prison life did things to him which changed that.

  I've no intention of writing an expose of the prison systems of America. In fact, after seeing "I Am A Fugitive From A Georgia Chain Gang," I am confident that Texas prison systems are paradises compared with what is alleged to take place in some states. Clyde was treated badly in many instances, according to things he told us, and occurrences in the Walls and at the farms were terrific factors in shaping his future life.

  For one thing, he saw a "lifer" knife a young boy
to death before his eyes one night. The man knew he was immune from a death sentence and he had nothing to lose. He had a row with the boy and killed him brutally. The "lifer" was given solitary confinement and changed to another place, but nothing else was done to him. The incident ate into Clyde's mind.

  Once I visited him and found him with both eyes blackened. Since the guard was ever present on these visits, I had no chance to get the details till later, but I then learned that Clyde had received a beating because he had complained in the field that the pace set for chopping cotton was too fast for him. He also told us that often the guards would ride them down if they lagged behind in their work. Once, after I had been with him, he said the guard accused him of having passed a note to me. Although Clyde denied it, the guard beat him severely for it. Of course, the guard could have saved trouble all around by having me searched before I left the prison, but this idea apparently didn't occur to him.

  Clyde had worked in the fields till he came to Dallas in 1922. He was used to it, but he said the work there was too heavy for him. When the long days were finished the convicts were returned to the farms, and were forced to run all the way. The guards were behind them on horseback, and if they failed to keep the pace, they were slated for punishment. I never saw the men come in from the day's work and have no way of knowing how it was done. My sister-in-law, Blanche, once went down to visit Buck, and parked beside the fields waiting till the men went in. She told me that the prisoners ran the whole two miles, just as Clyde had said.

  When you have a loved one in prison, your sympathies are going to be with him, and often the things you learn and suspect drive you nearly crazy. I tried not to think of what might be happening to Clyde during those two years, and spent my efforts in trying to have a job waiting for him when he did get out. I was determined that Clyde should be a man, as Bonnie had said, and not a thug.