Bonnie and Clyde: Resurrection Road by Clark Hays & Kathleen McFall

Author:Clark Hays & Kathleen McFall
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Pumpjack Press
Published: 2017-05-14T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

Shoo-fly

Clyde pulled into the little town and puzzled at the differences with Dallas—the bustle of commerce rather than the vacant buildings and the blasted faces of poverty; the green, bountiful fields instead of acres of arid dust; and the tidy, well-kept houses rather than abandoned shucking shacks.

“Wake up, Bon,” he said. “Check this place out. It’s like the Depression petered out before it even got here.”

Bonnie blinked sleepily and looked around. “Wowee,” she said. “The whole town looks like a fancy garden.” She rolled the window down and took a deep breath of the fresh, cool air.

Clyde pulled the car into the parking lot of the Shillington Farmers Market. “Let’s see if we can get directions to that Grange hall,” he said. “And I need to get my hands on some tools or explosives if we’re going to break into that safe.”

A black buggy rolled up next to them. A bearded man in a dark suit pulled the reins, bringing the horse to a halt. A woman in a plain dress and white cap stepped out with a basket on each arm and walked into the market.

Bonnie and Clyde followed them into the simple, wood-frame building. Inside the market, six aisles were lined with stalls filled with produce, meat, milk, soap, and more. The smell of fresh baked goods was laced with the faint but lingering scent of manure.

The appearance of two strangers wearing fancy clothes turned the heads of the rural shoppers, farmers, and merchants.

“Maybe we better push on,” Clyde said, instinctively unbuttoning his vest for quick access to his .45s. “We’re drawing attention.”

“We’re not the only city folk here. They’ll forget us soon enough,” Bonnie said.

When he looked more closely, he saw the crowd included other people in suits and dresses. Bonnie was right. And the focus on them was short-lived, supplanted by the steady activity, banter, and exchanges taking place in the Amish market.

“We could always stay somewhere else tonight,” Clyde said. “Maybe the back seat. We’ve had some fun there.”

She shook her head. “I’d rather sleep in a big old featherbed tonight,” she said, running her hand over a shiny pine one for sale.

“All them nights in the hotels have spoiled you already,” Clyde said.

“Pardon us, please,” said a woman in front of a small group of men and women.

Clyde tipped his hat, and both he and Bonnie moved back to let them pass. All the women in the group were dressed plainly—and nearly identically—in long, blue cotton dresses that reached to their ankles, sensible black shoes, and wide, spotless white aprons. The men wore black pants, white shirts, and vests, topped by wide-brimmed black hats.

“Did we drive so fast we went back in time?” Clyde whispered.

“I’ve seen some like them, called Mennonites, in Texas,” she said, watching the group pass. “It’s a religious thing. They don’t use anything modern.”

Bonnie and Clyde walked down a row of stalls. In the waning hours of the weekly market, the crowds were beginning to thin, and bargains were being struck.

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