Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [45]
By Sunday afternoon, word of the bloodied campers at Dexfield Park was relayed to the sheriff in the town of Adel. He had read of the Platte City shoot-out and immediately thought of the Barrow Gang. The sheriff drove to Dexter and questioned the merchants who had sold items to Clyde. Their descriptions of the man matched those on the Wanted posters in his office. He called the state police in Des Moines, asking for help. A pair of officers arrived at nightfall. By then word had spread of the approaching raid. Farmers began arriving in beat-up pickups, birdguns on their hips, looking for action. By nightfall dozens of people lined the dirt roads leading to Dexfield Park. It was an oddly festive atmosphere. Some boys brought dates. More than a few brought bottles. In the darkness around forty men with guns began moving into the woods, waiting for daylight.
Dexter, Iowa Monday, July 24
A heavy dew lay across the field. Clyde woke a few minutes after five to find Blanche already up, still attired in the tight riding breeches and sunglasses she had worn since fleeing Platte City. W.D. was roasting frankfurters over the fire. Clyde sat beside Bonnie on a seat cushion. He was ready to leave. He and W.D. had serviced the car and cleaned the guns the night before.
“Where are we going?” asked Bonnie, still in her nightgown.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” Clyde said. “I’m taking Buck home to Mother’s.” They had promised Cumie Barrow that should anything happen to one of them, the wounded brother would be brought home.
“You aren’t going without me,” Bonnie whispered. “And why should you drive all that way to take Buck back? You know he’s dying, honey. He’ll be dead by night.”
“I’m taking him back because he’s dying,” Clyde said.5
As they talked Clyde glanced up and saw movement in the trees: men were approaching, maybe a half-dozen. Clyde grabbed his favorite Browning, aimed it over the men’s heads, and began firing, trying to scare them off. But if he thought they were farmers out for a morning walk, he immediately realized his mistake. His shots were answered by a rolling fusillade of gunshots from the surrounding trees; within moments the campsite was engulfed by a swarm of flying bullets. W.D. was standing at the campfire, a skillet still in his hands, when a buckshot pellet struck him in the chest and knocked him down. As Clyde returned fire, he yelled for everyone to get into the car they had stolen in Perry.
As Clyde sprayed the trees with bullets, W.D. stumbled into the car, but he was unable to get the engine started. Shooting the Browning from his hip, Clyde scrambled to W.D.’s side, shoving him in the backseat. Bonnie limped in to join them, and a moment later Blanche half-carried the semiconscious Buck in as well. The moment they were inside, Clyde threw the car into reverse, heading for the field’s only exit, a narrow dirt path leading to the paved road that ran along the west side of the clearing. Bullets smashed into the car, shattering the windows. Clyde saw a half-dozen men with guns blocking his exit. Reversing course, he drove back toward the center of the field, crashing through bushes and underbrush. A bullet struck him in the shoulder, and he lost control of the car and ran over a tree stump.
W.D. leaped out and tried to shove the car off the stump. It was no use. “Everybody outta the car!” Clyde hollered. “Pile out—for God’s sake, pile out!”
Clyde ran for the Platte City car, but by the time he reached it the black Ford was a wreck; sixty-four bullets had ripped up the tires, blown out the windows and cracked the engine block. Clyde scanned the trees for an escape route. Beyond the camp, a hundred yards to the north, rose some scrubby trees beside the river; there