Jeff Guinn Read online

  If Clyde had faced the Broaddus cops and explained the mix-up, things might have been worked out, but when they arrived he hid in the attic. After the lawmen collected the car and left, Clyde hitchhiked back to Dallas, leaving Eleanor and her mother to find their own way home. The rental agency filed an official complaint. On December 3, Clyde was arrested by the Dallas police for car theft. There was no bawling out and immediate release this time. The mug shot of Prisoner 6048 shows a tight-lipped teenager with slicked-down hair parted neatly down the center and prominent, pointy ears. He looks resigned rather than scared. Since the agency had its car back, the company eventually decided not to press charges and Clyde was released. But he now had an official arrest record.

  Despite the Broaddus debacle, Eleanor soon took Clyde back. Still just sixteen, he persuaded her to elope, and they left town with another couple. As Cumie dryly noted, “they were away several days, when the girl got suspicious that Clyde really didn’t intend to marry her, and she came home, and Clyde showed up a few days later.” Soon afterward, Eleanor was permanently out of Clyde’s life. She was not the type of girl who held a grudge. Decades later, asked about long-standing rumors suggesting that her infamous former beau was either gay or impotent, she assured the interviewer that Clyde “didn’t have any problems at all,” and left no doubt that she spoke as an authority on the subject.

  Clyde had been out of jail for only about three weeks when he was arrested again, this time with Buck. The elder Barrow brother asked Clyde to help him pick up a truckload of turkeys to be sold for the holidays. Buck kept the details vague about how he’d acquired the turkeys, but Clyde wasn’t missing the dual opportunity for extra money and time with his big brother. The police received a complaint that the turkeys were stolen and arrested the Barrow boys before they could dispose of their haul. Both claimed they had no idea they were in possession of stolen property, but Buck offered to take full responsibility if Clyde was released. Buck spent a week in jail; Clyde avoided any prison time, but two arrests in one month encouraged the Dallas police to consider him a likely suspect in future robbery investigations. Dallas County deputy Ted Hinton wrote that the police began referring to Buck and Clyde as “the Barrow Boys…a term that signified no-accounts.”

  Sometime in late 1927 or early 1928 Clyde left United Glass for the Bama Pie Company, where he worked with Nell’s husband, Leon. Then he switched jobs again, to A&K Top and Paint Shop. Besides the continuing curse of low wages, there was a new complication. Clyde would frequently be picked up at work by Dallas police officers on “suspicion” and taken downtown for questioning. He was never formally charged with any crimes. But when he was released after questioning, the officers never offered to drive him back to work. So he had to walk, often distances of several miles in the sweltering summer heat or biting winter cold. He was not paid by his employers for the hours he missed.

  Clyde resented what he considered unfair, ongoing harassment, and his family felt he was turning harder. Cumie wrote that her son “just came to form a kind of contempt or hatred for the law, and figured it didn’t do much, if any, good to try to do right…he became somewhat discouraged at trying to get by honestly, which to him seemed to be the hardest way after all.” Henry made a rare attempt at parental counseling, but to no avail. “A working man just don’t have time to sit on his kids,” he later told Hinton. “And he’s really not all bad.”

  Clyde still cared very much about dressing nicely and impressing women. Eleanor was followed by other girlfriends—the names “Anne” and “Grace” joined “EBW” and “USN” as tattoos on his arms. One girl named Gladys made a particular impression on the rest of the Barrows. Nell described her as “a likeable person, very slim and pretty,” adding, “She wanted a lot of clothes, a watch, money for good times, and a car. When these things were not all forthcoming, she was very disagreeable.” Gladys soon moved along, but she stayed agreeable long enough to join Clyde on a vacation in Mexico. A postcard he sent home was proof to Cumie that her child was being corrupted by a hussy: “Drunk as hell. Having fun with Gladys.” The postcard became one of Marie’s favorite mementos of her brother.

  Clyde financed that vacation and other expenditures, such as a shiny new saxophone, by involving himself in higher-revenue crime. Car theft was an obvious, relatively new option for poverty-stricken young men like him who wanted to make lots of money in a hurry, and who didn’t care if they broke the law in the process. There were suddenly so many cars, and they were so easy to steal.

  There had been automobiles on America’s roads since the mid-1890s, when hundreds of manufacturers turned out limited numbers of prohibitively expensive models, mostly purchased by wealthy hobbyists who could afford chauffeurs. Around the beginning of the twentieth century, automobile manufacturers’ attention turned to the potential middle-class market, and Henry Ford made automotive history in 1908 by declaring he’d “build a motor car for the great multitude…. It will be so low in price that no man making a good salary will be unable to own one.” The 1909 Model T Ford was the first market smash, with almost 11,000 sold that year for $825 each. By 1915 there were 2.5 million cars on the road, and many of these were almost impervious to thieves because of their primitive technology. Starting them involved squatting in front of the vehicle and turning a hand crank, which whipsawed back when the engine caught. Would-be thieves had to engage in this noisy, prolonged procedure, which eliminated the element of surprise, and, with it, the potential for theft. But by 1912, inventors had perfected electric starting systems, and within a few years they became standard on all car models. Many car owners fell into the habit of leaving their keys in the ignition, and, even if the keys weren’t handy, now it was easy for thieves to hot-wire the cars.

  Ford in particular stepped up production and kept lowering prices. In 1927, as Clyde Barrow began actively pilfering whatever vehicles he could, a basic Model T cost $260. General Motors introduced “hire-purchase,” allowing customers to put down one-third of a car’s price and then pay the rest in installments, and the process was quickly adopted by the company’s competitors. Henry Ford’s prediction had come true: anyone making a good salary could afford to own a car. In the late 1920s, Dallas County registered more than seventy thousand. Dallas police began regularly bringing in Clyde on suspicion of stealing some of them. None of the charges stuck, but even his family was aware of what he was up to. Nell caught Clyde filing the serial number off the engine of a car he was hiding in a garage and confronted him. Instead of denying her accusations, he accused his sister of being disloyal.

  There was considerable profit in stealing a car and then disposing of it. Cars stolen in North Texas were usually driven across the border to Oklahoma and sold to fences there, who’d repaint the vehicles and sell them as slightly used. A stolen car in good condition could bring Clyde $100 or more. That made the risk well worth it. He began dressing much better.

  The attention paid to him by the Dallas police convinced Clyde to conduct his car thefts out of town. Denton to the north and Waco to the south were prime locations. On February 22, 1928, he was held for “investigation” thirty-five miles west of Dallas in Fort Worth, a general charge that allowed the police to hold him while they tried to find evidence he’d committed a specific crime. To Clyde’s immense satisfaction, they couldn’t and he was released again. It would have been impossible for Clyde not to begin developing a sense of invulnerability. The law seemingly couldn’t touch him.

  But then it touched Buck, who had also started making out-of-town trips to steal cars. He was arrested on August 13 in San Antonio when police caught him trying door handles on a series of vehicles. He’d just hopped into one when the arrest was made. Buck was given a court date and released on bond, but he didn’t appear for his hearing. The San Antonio police had Buck picked up, and they deposited him in the city jail to await trial. Since he’d been caught in the act, it was likely Buck would do serious prison time.

  Cumie and Henry didn’t appro
ve of stealing, but they were loyal to their son. When Buck’s trial was set for late January 1929, his parents decided they would go to San Antonio to lend whatever moral support they could, and possibly by their presence influence the judge to show leniency. It was 275 miles from West Dallas to San Antonio, and the Barrows couldn’t afford train or even bus fare. Henry hitched up the horse and loaded Cumie, L.C., and Marie in the wagon. Tookie Jones, Cumie’s best friend in the campground, came along, too, bringing her youngest sons, W.D. and Leroy. They left without even enough money to buy meals. The trip took almost three weeks. Every few days along the way they would stop and hire out at roadside farms where cotton was being picked or some other field work needed to be done. Marie recalled how, during the trip, her father’s fingernails were literally ripped off by prickly plants. All seven of them got down on their knees in the dirt and worked, though ten-year-old Marie was excused after the first day when her cotton sack contained as many twigs and leaves as fluffy bolls. When they were paid for their labor, they used the money to buy inexpensive food for themselves and feed for the horse. At night, Cumie cooked potatoes and pots of beans over a campfire. They slept under and around the wagon.

  Perhaps swayed by the presence of the accused man’s family, the judge in San Antonio dismissed the charges against Buck. After all, no car had actually been stolen. But it was increasingly clear to everyone except Buck and Clyde that such good luck couldn’t last much longer.

  Soon after they returned to West Dallas, Cumie and Henry were dismayed to discover that Clyde had a new, clearly undesirable friend. Frank Clause was about Clyde’s age, and he had grown up on the east side of the Trinity in Dallas proper. Clyde said they met at work, but the Barrows believed they became acquainted while both were in custody at the county jail. Frank was a “second-story man,” someone who broke into houses and businesses. With his encouragement, Clyde’s immersion in crime escalated. Nell Barrow wrote later that if she had realized just how bad an influence Frank would be, she would have shot Clyde dead before she allowed them to become friends. Soon after Frank and Clyde teamed up, they came by Nell’s apartment late one night with armloads of ice cream bars, pocketknives, and hot water bottles. They swore everything had been tossed out on the street for anyone to claim by employees trying to put out a fire at a drugstore. When she called them liars, Clyde shouted at her and left.

  Sometime in the fall of 1929, Frank Clause, Clyde, and Buck were arrested on suspicion of planning to burglarize a lumber company. They were released the next day, and had just returned to see Cumie in West Dallas when the police came for them again, telling Cumie and Nell, who was also there, that they were being taken back in for questioning about a different crime. Nell followed her brothers and their friend downtown and confronted the chief of police, accusing him and his officers of picking on the Barrows, Clyde in particular. The chief asked Nell about the canary yellow Buick roadster she was driving, a car she often loaned to Clyde. Was she aware that the car had been spotted in the towns of Lufkin and Hillsboro just before recent safe-crackings? Even though they hadn’t been able to prove anything yet, Nell was told, the police had no doubt her brother Clyde was guilty of those robberies and several more. “I could figure back,” she wrote. The alleged crimes had all occurred since Clyde became friends with Frank Clause. Clyde and Buck were released again, but the rest of the Barrows took little comfort from it. “It wasn’t a happy day,” Nell concluded.

  There was at least one happy day for Henry Barrow in the fall of 1929, though it wasn’t as pleasant for his horse. Henry was following his usual scrap metal route along the Houston Street Viaduct when a car careened out of control and hit the horse. The mortally injured animal bolted all the way back to the campground before it died. Henry—or, more likely, his older children—threatened a lawsuit, and the driver settled for “either $600 or $800,” according to Marie. Henry used some of the money to buy a Model T Ford, probably a truck rather than a coupé. The Ford was the only car Henry ever owned. Using it to search out and haul scrap metal increased the amount of ground he could cover every working day. It was a rare bright spot in the life of a man who needed them desperately.

  Then things turned desperate for the entire nation. In late October, the stock market crashed and America was instantly plunged into the economic depths later known as the Great Depression. The worst effect was initially in the Northeast, where businesses shut down in droves and many previously well-to-do citizens found themselves penniless in a matter of days. There was far less immediate impact in Texas, where the state economy was already in ruins due to the ongoing farm crisis. Many Texas families never even realized that a national economic depression had begun. There was certainly trepidation among Dallas business leaders—the city’s banks were the backbone of its economy—but for many families like the Barrows in West Dallas, their lives didn’t change a bit. They didn’t own stocks and bonds, or have money in a bank.

  In fact, early November 1929 brought the Barrows reason to feel hopeful. Buck had a new girlfriend, one his parents and sisters believed might be able to coax him back to honest work. Pretty, petite Blanche Caldwell Callaway was eighteen, the daughter of an Oklahoma preacher. Her parents, Matthew and Lillian Caldwell, were divorced, and Blanche had lived with her father until at her mother’s insistence she reluctantly married a much older man named John Callaway. The marriage was disastrous, and Blanche fled to West Dallas, where she stayed with a friend named Emma Lou Renfro. Emma Lou’s house wasn’t far from the campground where the Barrows still lived, and on November 11, Blanche met Buck somewhere in the neighborhood. Though she was still legally married to John Callaway, Blanche was instantly attracted to Buck, whom she nicknamed “Daddy.” Buck called her “Baby.” He’d been dating another woman, but gave her up for Blanche. Cumie was ecstatic—the daughter of a preacher, even one who was married and hiding out from her husband, was exactly the kind of good influence she felt her wayward son needed. Marie wrote that Blanche struck the Barrows as “a good, nice, sweet gentle person…as proper and respectable as a preacher’s daughter could be expected to be.”

  Buck told Blanche about his two previous marriages, and the two surviving children from them. He didn’t mention being involved in car thefts and robberies, but Blanche hadn’t known her charming new boyfriend for three weeks before she was presented with irrefutable evidence of his darker side.

  The cocky Barrow brothers had bragged to their little brother, L.C., that “you never break the law until you’re caught.” On November 29 they did, and Buck was. He, Clyde, and an accomplice named Sidney Moore drove north in a stolen Buick. In the small town of Henrietta, they abandoned the Buick in favor of a Ford. They spied a house that appeared to be empty and broke into it. The haul was disappointing—some bits of jewelry and very little cash. They split the proceeds in thirds and turned back for West Dallas, passing through the medium-sized town of Denton on the way. It was one in the morning, and they weren’t returning home with much to show for the trip. Motor Mark Garage looked promising, so they broke in and found a small safe that defied their efforts to crack. Unwilling to give up, they lugged the safe outside and loaded it into the Ford. They were spotted by a patrol car, and Clyde, who was driving, decided to run for it. The chase didn’t last long. Clyde took a turn too fast and smashed the Ford’s front axle on the curb. He, Buck, and Moore took off on foot, and the Denton police began shooting. Buck was hit, suffering flesh wounds in both legs. The cops arrested him where he fell screaming in pain, and Moore surrendered. Clyde kept going. He hid under a house until the police gave up hunting for him, then he hitchhiked back to Dallas. The owner of the garage told the cops he had only $30 in the safe. Buck’s freedom had been squandered for a pittance. Searching him and Moore after their arrests, the lawmen also found jewelry from the Henrietta break-in. This time, there was plenty of evidence to convict Buck Barrow.

  There was no cockiness left in Clyde when he arrived back in the campground. He’d spent his hours
in flight thinking Buck had been killed, so there was some relief in learning he’d just been wounded, and not too badly. Denton’s wheel of justice spun fast, and on December 6, Buck and Moore were indicted for burglary, then tried on December 17. A jury took only a few minutes to pronounce them guilty. Buck was sentenced to four years in the main state prison at Huntsville. Blanche promised she’d wait for him.

  In early January 1930, just before he was transferred from the Denton jail to Huntsville, Buck sent a letter to his parents. Because he was illiterate, he had to dictate it to another prisoner, but the message was what Cumie had been praying for. Buck promised that “if God gives me one more chance I shall try to the best that is in me to lead a life worth while in the future and be a man that the people will respect and my relatives will honor. I know the heart aches and sorrow that my crookedness has did to you and Father.”

  Cumie found it “a terrible disgrace” to have a son in prison, but she “felt some better” when Buck’s first letter from Huntsville arrived a few days later. He said he was in the prison hospital because his legs were hurting, and that “it sure looks hard but I am going to take it.” He urged Cumie to get him a “furlow” or parole; she soon was in contact with the governor’s office in Austin. It was typical for prisoners’ families to request paroles. With Texas prisons plagued by overcrowding, pardons were the most convenient means of reducing the number of inmates. They were granted on a regular basis.

  The rest of the Barrows knew Clyde had nearly been captured with Buck in Denton. They hoped that close call would make Clyde reconsider his criminal ways before he otherwise inevitably joined Buck in prison. He was nineteen, between jobs, and frequently hauled in for questioning by the Dallas police. Clyde also knew what the rest of his family didn’t—he was being sought in several other towns for crimes ranging from car theft to burglary. This contributed to a crushing sense of being powerless. Clyde wanted to be the one in charge, but now he couldn’t even walk out on the street without being afraid the cops would pick him up. Marie thought he was “thoroughly shaken and unnerved.”