Fugitives: The True Story of Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker by Parker Emma & Barrow Cowan Nell

Author:Parker, Emma & Barrow Cowan, Nell [Parker, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780977161072
Publisher: Wild Horse Press
Published: 2013-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Bonnie Tells of Their Escape

Clyde left us, running through the woods toward a house over the bridge where he thought there might be a car. Because Blanche and Buck stayed behind, they were off our trail for awhile, and we had a chance to crawl away and hide. W. D. was blinded by blood, but he helped me as much as he could. We had no guns — nothing with which to defend ourselves. We knew we were lost if caught. I was bloody from head to foot, and briers and thorns had torn my bandages away and the burn was open again. Blood ran from my leg at every step. We came to the river and stopped. We crept back into the underbrush and crouched down. The firing had died away. We knew they had captured Buck and Blanche — that was why we had been able to get away. The minutes dragged like hours. Every sound was like a footstep. Even little lizards running over leaves made my heart stand still. I didn't know where Clyde was, how he'd find us, or where we'd go if he did. Clyde could always do the impossible, but I didn't believe he could get back into the park with a car. I didn't believe it was possible — not with the woods full of officers.

Suddenly the firing broke out again, louder and closer. The air was filled with the noise of it, men shouting and running, pistols popping, the rattle of machine gun fire. Then it was still again. I knew they'd got Clyde. My heart turned to ice. Nothing else mattered — my wounds — my leg — death — nothing. They'd got Clyde. We lay there in the leaves quietly, neither of us moving. At last, after a long time, W. D. said: "They got him this trip, Bonnie."

I said: "I wish I had his gun, that's all."

"You couldn’t do any good with it," W. D. told me weakly, his head lying in a pool of blood.

"I could do all the good I wanted to do with it," I replied. "I could kill myself. He’s finished and I don’t want to live." I began to cry. W. D. reached out and patted me on the shoulder clumsily and said, "Don’t, kid, don’t."

Again we lay there a long time. We heard a rustling in the underbrush and a soft hiss. We lay like dead people, we were so scared. Soon the soft hiss came again. W. D. wanted to answer it but I wouldn't let him, for I was afraid it was only a ruse from the cops to get us to break cover, so we lay still and said nothing. After a long time it came again, close now, and then, crawling on his all fours, his arm hanging useless, his clothes soaked with blood — he had four bullet wounds — Clyde came toward me. I just lay there and looked at him, and all the world became the most beautiful place I'd ever known.

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