Fugitives- The True Story of Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker Read online

  We were a stormy family, but loyal to each other. We had plenty of rows and fights among ourselves, but any attack from the outside, either in school or elsewhere, showed us presenting a solid front to the world and ready to whip anybody, no matter how many nor how big. We grew up that way. We all loved each other devotedly, but Clyde loved me and my mother the best. In fact, Clyde's love for his mother, even in his last desperate days, was subject for much newspaper comment. At one time before his death, officers arrested my mother and spirited her away from Dallas with a lot of newspaper publicity which went out all over the state. This was done solely in order to entice Clyde back home because he had said that if ever they harmed a hair of her head because of the things he'd done, he'd come in and kill them. But Clyde saw through the ruse, and a day later, mother was returned to us, safe and sound.

  Though Buck wasn't as daring as Clyde, both Clyde and Buck rode wild horses whenever they could find one, and generally behaved like young dare devils. Buck was always slow, easy going, didn't like to work, and never cared for guns. He loved cock fights, and was always getting chickens and starting something. Sometimes, if there weren't any good fighters on our farm, Buck wasn't above lifting good fighters from surrounding farms, which is where, I suppose, the story got started that Clyde's first offence against the law was stealing chickens. Clyde never stole a chicken in his life, as police and juvenile records will show.

  Our home conditions were very bad, as I know now. We lived in a small frame building of about three or four rooms, I don't recall the exact size, except that many of us slept on the floor. We had to work in the fields, chopping cotton, hoeing corn, doing whatever was necessary, as soon as we were able. I don't recall that we minded it so much because we didn't know any better. I remember only that Clyde had a quick temper, and would flare up and say things when he got mad. Then, when he cooled down, he was always exceedingly sorry he'd been so bad, and would try to do everything in his power to redeem himself and get us to laughing again.

  When Clyde was six and I was eleven years old, we began spending a great deal of time with my father's brother, who lived on a farm near Corsicana. This uncle was crazy about both of us. We liked him and his home because he had children about our ages. Also, this uncle was very easy-going, and he didn't see why children should be made to go to school if they didn't want to, and he didn't send us. We worked on his farm some, hunted some, and played a lot. Our visits with him usually lasted about three months; then we'd have to go back home. We never stayed at home long at a time. At the first chance, we'd go back to the Corsicana uncle and freedom. This went on three years, Clyde and I having a grand time on this visiting schedule, but learning very little.

  When I was fourteen and Clyde nine, we went to visit on a ranch at Mabank, Texas, with another uncle. Here we went to a rural community school situated between Mabank and Trinidad. Things weren't as easy here because this uncle wasn't as lax about such little matters as learning how to spell and do sums. He made us go to school. However, after school we had the chance to ride horseback after the cattle, and we liked that. I remember particularly on this ranch I helped Clyde steal some sausage — my first and last adventure into crime — but at the time we felt we were thoroughly justified.

  This uncle's wife was very stingy. Every fall when hog killing time came around she would put by in the smoke house all of the delectable pieces of fresh killed meat, and fry up tons of sausage and pack them in their own grease. The hams and shoulders and bacon we never saw except on state occasions, but three times a day for month on end we were served re-heated sausage out of the fried sausage barrel. Finally Clyde said he couldn't eat another sausage, if he starved. We decided on drastic measures and stole the sausage. Since the place was simply alive with hunting dogs, hound dogs, watch dogs, and just plain dogs, we lured them out behind the smoke house and fed them sausage till they were puffed up like balloons and walked funny. This necessity measure still didn't do away with all the sausage for even a dog's capacity is limited. We were still eating some of it when we left and went to live with an uncle at Kerens. In fact, the sausage was one of the reasons that we moved.

  But the Kerens uncle meant to get his money's worth out of us. He was more than strict, and he certainly made us work. We had to get up hours before dawn to go to the field or help with the stock. I remember how Clyde complained bitterly more than once that he was tired of going to work before the dew was off the ground, because by sun-up his clothes were always dripping wet. This Kerens business didn't last very long.

  Our parents gave up farming in 1922, and moved to Dallas. I was seventeen and Clyde was twelve, and we decided to come to Dallas too. I found a job and went to live in town with a friend. Clyde left me for the first time since he was born, and went to live with my mother and father in West Dallas. Here he attended his last school, the Cedar Valley School. He was in the fifth grade. When he was sixteen, he stopped school and got a job with the Exline-Exline Co. He worked variously with several firms during this time, including the Nu-Grape Co., the Western Union as messenger — he was here six months — and finally at Proctor and Gamble's.

  One of the first things Clyde bought from his earnings was a stripped down speedster, quite an old model, for which he paid $50. He was inordinately proud of it and got quite a kick out of running around in it. I married about this time and moved into a cottage over on Pear Street in South Dallas. Clyde promptly drove his speedster over and moved in with us.

  I was very glad to have him, for my husband played in an orchestra and was away from home a lot. I was lonesome, but Clyde's coming changed all that and things became lively right away. We enjoyed each other with perfect understanding and perfect comradeship. Clyde had grown into a very handsome boy. He had always been tremendously fond of me, and so thoroughly lovable and full of fun that he was a joy to have in the house. We pranked together like two kids.

  Clyde was always very fond of music. When a kid on the farm, he used to play the jew's-harp and sing. I remember when he was eleven he went down to Mexia during the oil boom and held a job watching the oil rigs at night. During the long tedious evenings, he used to play and sing for the roughnecks and roustabouts, and they paid him for it, as grown people often pay precocious children. Clyde still wanted to be a musician when he came to live with us, and he took advantage of the fact that my husband owned a saxophone. Clyde started learning to play the saxophone, and the air up and down Pear Street was split with harsh, discordant sounds for many weeks till I've no doubt the neighbors were often on the verge of turning us in for disturbing the peace. But Clyde loved his saxophone playing and kept it up.

  One day I came home from a visit and announced proudly to Clyde that I had learned to play the ukulele. At that time the ukulele was a very fashionable instrument, and almost everybody played one, or tried to. They were selling for $1.98, and the instant I told Clyde that I was an accomplished "uke" performer, his face brightened like a full moon: "If you can play it, so can I," he exclaimed. "Let's buy a 'uke' right now, Sis!"

  Our combined finances amounted to $1.50. We went through the house like a fine tooth comb, looking for extra pennies, and finally, after a lengthy search, we got together the additional 48 cents. But we had no carfare. Clyde wasn't to be balked by a little thing like that. He walked to town, a matter of about eight miles for the round trip, and returned several hours later triumphantly bearing the "uke."

  Here again we hit a snag. Neither of us knew how to tune it, and this was indeed a catastrophe after all our efforts. We located ten cents more, borrowing four from a neighbor, and then ordered two ice cream cones from the drug store. The instant the colored delivery boy brought them, Clyde, waiting on the front steps, pounced on him.

  "Ike, can you tune a ukulele?" Clyde demanded.

  "Sho kin, Mistah Clyde," the negro replied, and reached for it. Ike tuned the "uke." Then Clyde made him sit down on the front steps and play Saint Louis Blues till the pharmacy telephoned to know what had b
ecome of their delivery boy. After that, Clyde and I "uked" for weeks, and sang to our own accompaniments proudly. Whenever the thing got out of tune, we ordered two ice cream cones from the drug store and made Ike tune it again.

  It was spring, and Clyde was beginning to notice girls. He began to be a very careful dresser, and to want his clothes just so. He took pains to shave every day, to keep his hair cut precisely, and to care for his fingernails. These were habits he acquired early and never lost as long as he lived. He was nearly always immaculate, even after days spent on the road, fleeing from the law.

  One lovely spring day Clyde came in at noon from Proctor and Gamble's. He had his wrist tied up, and when I asked him in concern what was the matter, he explained patiently and sweetly that he had sprained it and had to knock off work. Ten minutes later I found him putting on a tie before the mirror in his room, using one wrist as easily as the other. He was also whistling gaily.

  "Listen here, Clyde Barrow," I said severely, "you tell me the truth. There’s not a thing in the world the matter with your wrist, is there, now?"

  He grinned in the mirror at me, that boyish, lovable grin, and then winked. "Not a thing," he confessed gaily. "It was just too swell a day to stay in and work, that's all. You know how it is, Sis." Then he swung around and hugged me, and went back to tying his tie.

  I scolded him, but it was half-hearted scolding, for I did know how it was. I knew too, how Clyde loved a good time and how few good times he'd had when growing up. I didn't scold him hard. I even fixed his tie a little better for him. Then he backed his rattle trap car down the driveway and went bumping off down Pear Street in the spring sunshine.

  That night marked the first time Clyde ever got into any sort of trouble with the officers of the law. He was rather late coming in, and I heard the car hit the drive going about forty, dash down toward the garage and bump into the porch with a bang. Then suddenly there was Clyde in the kitchen door, looking flustered and nervous. "Sis," he whispered to me, "if anybody comes here and asks you who drove that car tonight, don't you tell them — hear?"

  I wasn't a bit scared. I had no premonition that this was the beginning of the long trail that was to end in death. I just laughed and said: "Now, what in the world have you been up to, Clyde?"

  He laughed too, the color coming into his face again. "I was just speeding a little," he confessed. "It's so much fun to go fast," he rushed on when he saw my face sober. "The smart old cops whistled at me, so I put on all I had and ran for it."

  "But, Clyde, you should have stopped," I told him. "They’d just have scolded you if you’d stopped. It’s running away that gets you in bad."

  His face clouded, grew sullen. "I hate rows," he muttered. "It's easier to run away."

  I know now that this was the very beginning right there. Clyde hated rows and running away was easier than staying and trying to explain, or taking his medicine. Clyde was to run away consistently the rest of his life. Later, as a criminal, when he could not run away, he kidnapped officers or shot his way out. I had no way of knowing this at that time, and if I had known, could I have changed him any? I don't think so. He was made the way he was and nobody could have changed him except himself. The time was to come, however, when because of Bonnie Parker, Clyde would have liked to have changed, but by then it was too late, forever and ever.

  So when he begged me ingratiatingly this spring night: "You wont tell on me when they come, will you, Sis?" I promised that I wouldn't. And I never broke that promise. I never told on him about anything till the day he died.

  But the cops didn't come that night. They didn't come till much later when Clyde had his first love affair. And when they came that time, Clyde ran away again.

  Clyde's first romance began in the fall of 1925. He met Anne B., who was a student of Forest Avenue High School in Dallas. Clyde's delightful personality and his ability to make people like him was attested over and over by the fact that although he had almost no education and no background, the most respectable and educated people were his friends, and the nicest girls fell in love with him.

  This was true of all three of his major love affairs. It began with Anne B., who graduated while still going with Clyde, directly against her mother's wishes; it included Gladys, who lived with him in Dallas as his wife for almost a year; and it ended with Bonnie Parker who was the prize pupil in the Cement City High School. All three of these girls had more than ordinary educations. All three had been reared in homes of middle class culture and refinement, with ideals, morals, and conventions drilled into them from birth. They loved him devotedly, against parental objections, against public opinion, and undoubtedly against their own better judgments. That was the sort of boy Clyde was; that was why he could always get by with his escapades. When these escapades became offences against the state, grew into crimes, and ended in outlawry and banditry, there were still those of us who loved him and stuck by him, even while shuddering at every fresh newspaper story.

  Another incongruous thing about Clyde at this period, considering his later record, was that he was never fired from a job, that he liked to work — (the juvenile court records have this fact written into their papers) — and that all his employers liked him. More than that, he had a splendid credit rating and could buy anything he wanted on it. He paid his bills. He bought Anne B. a wrist watch which she still has, some expensive leather luggage, an onyx ring, a diamond engagement ring and a wedding ring. I wear the engagement ring now.

  Clyde was working at Proctor and Gamble's when he met Anne. Her brother met Clyde and liked him — liked him so much, in fact, that he brought him home and introduced him to his sister. Clyde fell desperately in love. He was only sixteen and love hit him hard. He regaled me by the hour concerning the beauties and superlative qualities of this girl, and she was indeed all the things he said she was.

  He went with Anne all winter. He had changed jobs now, going to the A. and K. Auto Top Works, where he received a better salary. Clyde worked well and conscientiously. He was going to marry Anne just as soon as she finished school. At that time her parents made no objection, for Clyde had never yet had any dealing with the law (except for truancy from Cedar Valley School), and some minor juvenile offences that were not known.

  Despite the many stories which describe him as small and undersized, with a weak chin and shifty eye, I can only produce pictures to prove that he was very handsome and quite well-built, and state the fact that his friends were many and numerous, and equally divided between both sexes. Clyde was not a ladies' man; he was just an ordinary young boy with more good looks and personality than the average, and everybody who knew him, liked him. Although they were not sanctioning such an early wedding, even Anne's parents liked him. They felt that Clyde and Anne should wait a few years, at least. Clyde had no such intentions, as the purchase of the wedding ring shows.

  It was not till the spring of 1926 that Clyde got into his first trouble, and that, as I have said, was because of a girl — Anne, in fact. They had a quarrel, during which Clyde said some very nasty things, and Anne got up and marched off to San Augustine to visit with an aunt, and left Clyde to think matters over. I have stated elsewhere that Clyde had a hot temper and flew off the handle easily. Also, he was very headstrong, and wanted to boss people whom he loved. He had tried this on Anne and it hadn't worked.

  No sooner was she out of town than Clyde was sorry and dying to ask forgiveness. He had a brilliant idea: He would go to San Augustine. Since his speedster had fallen apart long ago, and had been sold for junk, he would rent a car and bring Anne back. In order to be doubly armed against refusal, he would take Anne's mother along with him. So he went down to Nichols Bros, and rented a car, but he only hired it for the afternoon. Just why he didn't hire it for a day, I'm sure, was a matter of finances. If they'd known he was taking the car to San Augustine, they'd have made him put up a pretty stiff deposit, and I'm sure he didn't have it. Then he drove out to Anne's house and asked Mrs. B. if she would like to visit w
ith her kinsfolk in San Augustine. It seemed that Mrs. B. would. Naturally, she knew nothing about the peculiar car arrangement. If she had, I'm sure she'd have stayed home rather than ride in it.

  At San Augustine, Anne and Clyde made up immediately. Everything was rosy; Clyde loved Anne and Anne loved Clyde; nothing was ever to separate them again. So happy were they that Clyde overlooked the fact that the car should be returned to Dallas with all haste. Instead, he stayed two days, waiting for Mrs. B. to get her visit out.

  Back in Dallas the rent car people began to be worried about the prolonged absence of their automobile. They telephoned Clyde's place of business, then his home, and learned that he had gone to the B.'s They were informed that Mrs. B. and Clyde were both in San Augustine. The rest was easy. Officers at San Augustine were notified, and on the afternoon of the second day, they appeared at the farmhouse in San Augustine looking for the car and for Clyde.

  Here Clyde made another big mistake. If he had met the officers, told his story simply and convincingly, and offered to make good the rental on the car, I'm sure nothing would have come of it. People the world over are sympathetic with young love, and Clyde was just seventeen that spring. But he didn't like rows, and it was easier to run away. When the officers came, he ran. He ran through a cornfield, and when they called "Halt!" he ran the harder. Two shots fired after the retreating figure, dodging in and out among the cornstalks, did nothing to retard his pace. He ran and ran, till he passed the fields and hid in the woods. Here he stayed till night came, then slipped back to the farm house. Anne prevailed on her aunt for the use of the family car and drove Clyde to Broadus to catch the Dallas train. Clyde's reception was rather cool, and he was speeded on his way without invitation to return. Only Anne was sweet and kind to him.

  She bade him a tearful farewell as she left him in Broadus, and came back to hear her mother speak her mind forcefully about Clyde Barrow. Mrs. B. was packing to go home, and she said as she packed, that the engagement was over, as far as Anne was concerned, and that was that.