Johnnie Death

One

1

The day they finally got around to letting me out of prison, I did the first thing John would’ve done — looked through the newspapers for notice of it.

Not that I figured they’d count me as anything in myself, damn them, but just only as always in connection with him, a mention of the release of the last of John’s gang. Not a word. I’m as dead as the rest. We’re all dead but him.

Virgil, Whitey, Chauncey, Ray, Hank, Jerry, Bobby, Alice — the only of us besides John who’s remembered is Leroy. That fact would about kill Virgil for one all over again. John would get a sigh out of Leroy’s being remembered and a laugh out of what remarks Virgil would make about it. Leroy himself would puff and strut. Except he’d more likely sulk because he’s still second to John. Same as he sulked and had tantrums when the Feds named John as Public Enemy Number One and Leroy as only Public Enemy Number Two and put only half the reward on Leroy as on John.

But who recalls even Dave Benedict who was John’s own ideal, who was everything hard and pro and dangerous that the publicity then and the lore since has made John to be? Dave’s forgotten and John’s remembered. Because John had whatever makes one of a kind, which catches people’s attention and imagination? Well, sure. But also because he got picked for it because Luke Blood and, later, others, including the Feds, were looking for a crook to publicize in order to build their own names. And, most, because John wanted and worked to be known. The publicity built him because he built himself.

He’d be old now. Hard to picture. Him or any of them old. Hell, I can still hardly picture me old. There aren’t mirrors all over the place in a prison, and I didn’t pay attention to what the years were doing to me anyway because you always look and feel the same inside those walls in that prison uniform. There’s no feeling in prison of time as being time, of anything passing or moving. There’s just a going on of sameness.

So when I came to this ratty room in this ratty hotel in the two-bit suit they give you and there was that beat-up mirror over the washstand, how could that be me behind that old man’s face? It makes me envy still more that John and most of the rest went like guys like us ought to go. Like a flare of lightning, here and gone.

But the clippings remain. Any mention connected with himself that he’d see, newspaper or magazine, he’d cut or rip it out. He’d mail them home to his sister, Anna, to keep for him.

The day I got out of prison, the check-out guard said wait, and he went and crashed and thumped around in the storage room and came back dirty and gasping and sweating and swearing and staggering under the weight of a big brown cardboard box that was gray with thick dust. He dropped it on the counter with a boom that set the dust flying and said, gasping and coughing, Here, goddamn it, this is yours.

I said, likewise coughing from the dust, Mine? What the hell is it?

He said, gasping and coughing, How the hell do I know? All I know, it’s yours.

I opened it, and there were John’s clippings and the two notes. John’s sister, Anna, must have been afraid that her kids would get wrong ideas of admiration if she left the clippings to them, because her note said that the clippings were to go to me, on her death, as John’s oldest friend. Then there was the other note from the prissy prison official who’d received them those years ago, his note saying that I wasn’t to have them until my release because the contents weren’t proper possessions for a convict involved in the very crimes mentioned in the clippings.

So I hauled and sweated the box here to this resident hotel — to give this trap its formal title — here in this prison town. I got the address of the place from the check-out guard, and it’s about the quality of a place that you’d expect would be recommended by a prison guard. He obviously figured I wouldn’t want any big change from my cell. And of course there’s the swell added attraction that the window gives out upon a nice, full view of the prison on its hill.

Anyway, I read the clippings. Though of course only a tiny part of the total printed about him, there were a lot, that big box of them, and it took days. Sitting here in this lumpy, broken-springed, so-called easy chair with the box of clippings beside it, I’d pluck them out in no order, read them, drop them on the other side of the chair.

I’d read awhile, then lay head back and remember the parts of the way different happening were that they didn’t cover in the clippings, because of course they couldn’t know. Or I’d go out and walk, sometimes thinking about what had been, sometimes forgetting everything in the strangeness of just being able to walk without getting cut off by a barred door or a wall. And maybe I’d bring beer back up here and drink it while reading more of the clippings. Beer tasted odd after forty years.

Anna or John’s father had even added clippings after John, items about the killing and funeral and investigations and what became of us ones who were left over. I sit here in this run-down room in this ratty chair beside the dirty window to which I can turn my head and see out of, beyond it those prison walls, inside which I changed over decades from young into old, and here beside this chair is that carton and cause of it, the clippings, yellow and brittle and crumbling, and they bring things back.

And what they bring back most is just that there they are — that evidence of how he enjoyed being known, that boxful of paper that he paid the tag on in the long-ago gunfire of that Chicago street.

2

Though he was already known, it was the Kingman jail event that shot John to the top as the world’s most famous criminal. This was not only because it was so flashy a stunt, but also because he pulled it on his own. To that time, his reputation had been mostly tied in with the doings of his gang.

On the personal side, the Kingman thing turned out to mark about the middle of John’s career, the divide between the smooth operations of John’s first gang — which should really maybe more rightly have been called, if by anyone’s name, Dave Benedict’s gang — and the pretty slapdash of John’s second gang. But that’s getting ahead.

• • •

They’d built the Kingman, Indiana, jail almost as strong as a prison. It was big, three stories, brick. The newspapers called it escape-proof.

After our capture in Arizona, John and me had been brought back to Kingman, it being the county seat, to face a charge of murder rising out of the Easton, Indiana, bank holdup in which John had shot the policeman, McBride. They’d put us into cells on the second floor. It was the most strongly fortified part of this solid jail. Between our cells and the outside were seven separate barred doors and over half a hundred armed guards.

The Kingman sheriff was a woman, a Mrs. Haines, and where all the guards came from was that she was taking no chances on any jailbreak attempt by notorious John Donner. So, besides the regular jail guards and their own weaponry, this Mrs. Haines had called in volunteers, townsmen and farmers armed with rifles, shotguns, pistols. She’d also brought in National Guardsmen, these with rifles, pistols, shotguns, submachine guns, even hand grenades. For night, she’d rigged a floodlight system that kept the jail building and grounds bright as day. All in all then, they had us so ringed, locked and guarded that a ghost would’ve had a tough time slipping out.

But the odd thing was they weren’t really concerned about anybody slipping out. They had faith in their jail to keep John put. All this precaution was because they were worried that John’s friends might try to break in. From as soon as we’d been locked up, there’d been a rumor, reported regularly by newspaper and radio, that Whitey Hale was gathering a gang to bust into the jail and free us. Daytime, the sheriff even had an airplane flying the Kingman countryside, watching the roads for carloads of gunmen coming to rescue us.

Like always with John, everybody was exaggerating everything, the size of our outfit, the range of our contacts, the amount of palsiness and relationships among criminals in general. In fact, as to our own bunch, except for Whitey, the law had grabbed the whole gang when they’d caught John, me, and the other three in that one day’s raiding in Phoenix. Besides, even if Whitey’d known all that many other gangsters, the way that Kingman jail was guarded, no money could have hired him enough guys to successfully assault it.

But none of that mattered anyway because John and me knew that Whitey was in no shape to spring anyone. At the time we’d been put into the Kingman jail, it had been confirmed for us by G. Herbert Parsons, our crooked lawyer who was also Whitey’s lawyer, that, like we’d thought, Whitey was still in his crooked doctor’s underground place in Chicago recovering from the gunshot lung he’d got in the Easton robbery. He’d since moved to a hideout apartment but wasn’t yet back to active. Because all John’s and my money was stolen money and so had been taken away from us when caught, Whitey was paying Parson’s fee to defend us, but right now that was all he could do.

Naturally, however, John and me weren’t about to ease the law’s mind about Whitey. Let them fret about the army of gangsters on its way to attack them. Maybe they’d make a mistake we could use.

But they were sure and proud of their precautions and their jail. The local newspaper said, These rumors of gangster rescue, whether fact or fiction, have strengthened the Kingman jail into a fortress. As Kingman’s own Judge Edward Banks has said, ‘All the gangsters in the United States couldn’t free Donner from behind those bars.’ The citizens of Kingman, of Indiana, of the nation at large may rest secure. There will be no gangster rescue, no escape. Donner and his accomplice are in the Kingman jail to stay.

The routine in the cell block was that, after each meal, the guards would let all us prisoners out of our cells into the second floor corridor to walk and exercise. The guards would then go away and do other work or maybe just loaf and come back when came time to put us back into our cells. This wasn’t so careless as might seem. The corridor was blocked one end by a barred door, other end by a barred window. You couldn’t get out of the corridor.

March 2, 1934. We’d been in the jail about a month. We’re taking our after supper walk in the corridor. John said to me, side of mouth, Don’t look at me, but we’re leaving tomorrow.

We strolled to the barred window and gazed idly out I said, How?

Squinting under the glare of the floodlights below, he said, I’ve got a gun. And after breakfast, you and me are going.

We walked back down the corridor toward the barred door, smiling and nodding at the other prisoners, not looking at each other. We were being careful even without the guards around because we didn’t trust the other prisoners. They were local guys held on local charges and we didn’t know which might be plants of the sheriff or might just tell anything they heard in hope of its help in their cases. I said, not looking at John, Where’d you get a gun?

He said, Take talk to tell. Just set to go come morning.

I laid awake a time. Even with a gun, how get through all those barred doors and past all those guards?

Saturday morning, March 3. Woke by the morning bell. Gray outside and raining. Breakfast in our cells. Then let out into the corridor.

Nine A.M., down the corridor beyond the barred door, came this old guy, Cluny, employed as an attendant at the jail. He was leading a crew of trusties who were carrying mops, buckets, brooms. They always came in that time of morning to sweep and mop. Cluny was a chatty old party who knew the jail layout both from his work and from having been locked up there often himself for being publicly drunk. John had talked with him, offhandedly asking what was located where in the jail and what the protections were. Cluny had asked how come he was interested. John had replied that he was forming a picture of the jail in order to plan his escape. Cluny had laughed and called John, a real kidder.

Anyway, this morning, Cluny no sooner unlocks the door and lets in the trusties than John walks to him, pulls an Army .45 automatic pistol from under his shirt, shoves it into Cluny’s stomach, says, I guess you know what this is, Cluny.

Cluny goes gray and starts to melt at the knees. He says, Don’t kill me, John. I never did nothing to you.

John says, Nobody gets killed who doesn’t give me trouble. He steps backward, holds the gun out toward the trusties and other prisoners, says loud, Everybody look at this.

Everybody looked.

John says, Everybody get into those cells. Everybody headed quick for the cells, including Cluny. John grabbed the back of Cluny’s shirt, saying annoyed, Oh, not you.

The trusties and prisoners vanished into the cells. John shot questions at Cluny until he’d completed his mind’s blueprint of the building. Dave Benedict, with his military way of operating, would have admired how John was thinking today. None of his usual rashness. No just bolting in hope of somehow finding the way out. John was mapping it same way Dave would have.

Meanwhile, I watched the guys in the cells. This so nobody might figure to get himself a break in court by doing something to block a Donner escape. After John finished questioning Cluny, we took him into the outer corridor and locked the barred door behind us. John called back to the people in the cells, saying, I don’t want anybody trying to do himself a favor with the authorities by yelling out the window to warn those guards about this. If that happens, I’ll come back up here and put bullets into people.

With me following to watch that no guards stepped out of doorways in back of us, John took Cluny at gunpoint down the outer corridor to the stairs. We tiptoed down the staircase toward the main floor, Cluny leading and trembling. John is looking ahead around Cluny under the overhang of the stairwall, trying to see down the lower corridor. Just short of the bottom of the stairs, he pulls his head back quick, says low back to me, There’s a guy in a chair up the corridor. He’s got a gun.

I leaned ahead, took a cautious peek under the overhang. The guy was in a plain wood chair, reading a newspaper. He was chunky and wearing glasses, tan shirt with an emblem on the sleeve, tan trooper-type hat. He had a shotgun across his lap, holstered pistol on his hip.

I pulled my head back and said, "He’s got two guns."

John looked annoyed. He said, I know that, Shorty. I was speaking general. He said to Cluny, Who is he?

Cluny says, voice shaking, I don’t know. I didn’t see. Don’t shoot me.

John says, Oh, relax, Cluny, you’re not shot yet. And you won’t be if you don’t give trouble. Look and tell me who it is.

Cluny peeked trembling around the corner, yanked his head back, said, Oh, well, that’s Deputy Sheriff Merwin Bump.

John says, Call him.

Cluny says, He’s the fingerprint expert here.

John says, My, that’s interesting. Call him.

Cluny says, He was appointed by Judge Edward Banks. You shoot him, the judge might be mad.

John says, Oh, shoot, shoot, is shoot all you can think of? I’m not going to shoot Deputy Sheriff Merwin Bump, the fingerprint expert, unless he tries to shoot me. Call him.

Cluny sticks his head out into the corridor and calls, shaky, Mr. Bump, can I see you, please?

John whispers to Cluny, What’s he doing? Tell me his movements.

Cluny says, regular voice, Getting up. Putting …

John says angry, In a whisper.

Cluny says, Oh. He whispers. Putting down newspaper, putting down shotgun. Heading this way.

We hears Bump’s voice before we see him. He says, Well, Jimmy, what.… He reaches the foot of the stairs. John steps out around Cluny and trains his gun at Bump. Bump stares. He was middle-aged. John says, Now mind yourself, Merwin, and you won’t get yourself hurt. All we’re interested in is getting out.

I took Bump’s .38 revolver, and we walked Cluny and Bump back up the stairs ahead of us. Cluny said, I’m sorry, Mr. Bump. I didn’t have no choice.

Bump said, I know that, Jimmy. It’s all right.

As we went up the stairs, we could hear murmurings coming from above us from the cell block down the corridor where we’d locked up the prisoners and trusties.

Cluny craned his head around at John. He was trembling. He said, This is all too hard on my nerves. I need a drink.

John said, Tell me where to get one in a jail and I’ll join you. Keep walking.

As we reached the second-floor landing, we saw that the prisoners and trusties had come back out of the cells into the barred-off part of the corridor. The murmuring cut off when they spotted us. As we headed down the corridor toward the barred door, some hurried back into the cells.

Cluny craned around again at John and said, trembling, But I have to have a drink. I can’t go on like this without one.

As we reached the barred door, John said, Well, Cluny, since I haven’t got a drink handy, what I’ll do is lock you up and we’ll take the deputy sheriff here with us instead.

Cluny went limp. He said, Oh, thank God.

John said, That’s providing he’ll cooperate. He gave Bump a little push in the back with his gun. He said, Will you?

Bump said, Yes.

John said, Good attitude. He said to me, Watch him. He stepped around Bump, waved his gun at those beyond the door, said, Back. They moved back. He unlocked the door, said to Cluny, Okay, in.

Cluny hurried inside, saying, Thank you, John, a million thanks.

John said, Sorry to have put upon you. He relocked the door, said to Bump, Where’s the warden?

Bump licked his lips, said, Tom Cook? Likely down in his office.

John said, Let’s go see him. We took Bump back downstairs to where we’d caught him. John and me ducked into the broom closet beside the foot of the stairs, John keeping his gun on Bump through the slightly open closet door, me backing up John with Bump’s revolver. John says to Bump, Call Cook that someone wants him.

Bump calls, strained, Hey, Tom, a man here wants you.

A few seconds passed. Then from up the corridor we heard the clank of a barred door as it opened, then closed. Then through the crack in the other side of the door, I saw the warden coming down the corridor. We’d seen him before. He was a little guy, about my size. I nudged John to get set. He grinned at me. He was enjoying himself.

The warden walks to Bump at the stairs, says, looking around, Who wants me, Merwin? Where is he?

John steps out behind him, sticks his .45 into Cook’s spine, says, Here.

We took them back upstairs and locked Cook up in a cell far from the window where he couldn’t call out to the guards below outside.

John says to the prisoners and trusties, And to go with the warning I gave you before, don’t let the warden talk you into yelling out the window for help. Because we got bullets for smart alecks.

With the warden behind bars, John had taken the center out of the defense. There was still, though, that pack of armed guards inside and outside the building. With me covering his action with Bump’s revolver, John got Bump to call some of the guards, one at a time, from the different jailhouse rooms along our planned escape route, and he grabbed them the same way as Cook and locked them up in the same cell with him. In all this way, he bagged ten.

But that still left plenty of guards loose and, to try escape against all those guys, John figured we needed stronger guns. We had by now rifles, shotguns, and pistols we’d taken off the captured guards, but he was thinking of submachine guns. He questioned Bump and got that he thought that the warden had machine guns in his office.

We took Bump downstairs again and sneaked up the corridor toward the warden’s office, looking cautious into the rooms we passed, this in case more guards had wandered in since the ones we’d caught.

End of the corridor was divided from the warden’s office by a barred door. This was the door we’d heard clank open and closed just before John had grabbed the warden. On the far side of this door was one of the regular jail guards, revolver on hip. But he was daydreaming and didn’t see us until we were on him. John pointed his gun at him between the bars and whispered to him to unlock. He did.

We stepped through and saw a National Guard soldier, his back to us, down the corridor near the front door of the jail. He had a rifle. John silently hustled the guard and Bump into the warden’s office, then I covered them while John flattened beside the doorway and whispered, Okay, Merwin, sing out for the soldier.

Bump calls, Oh, soldier. Oh, National Guardsman. Could you come in here, please?

The soldier walked in, carrying his rifle. He was a kid. John jammed the .45 into his side and said, Reach, sonny.

We took away the soldier’s rifle and the guard’s revolver and I covered the three guys while John looked around the office. On a table were two submachine guns. He checked them. Loaded. He gave me one, stuck his .45 in the waistband of his trousers and picked up the other machine gun.

So there we were with two machine guns and the front door just steps away. I said, This the big moment? We go out?

John said, Let me check.

He lifted the window shade cautiously to one side, peered around it to see the front of the building, let the shade drop, said, At least ten armed guys, at least four with machine guns.

I said, Swell.

He said, We’ll just have to escape all over again in the opposite direction. Out the back.

We herded Bump, the jail guard, the National Guard soldier back upstairs, locked up the guard and soldier in the cell with the warden and the other guards. That was by now some crowded cell. I tossed the soldier’s rifle and the guard’s pistol clattering onto the pile of weapons we’d gathered. John looked at this collection, said, With all that pack of guards still loose, maybe we should beef up our forces. He turns to the other prisoners in the barred-in corridor, says, As you’ve maybe figured, if we ever get through capturing people, we’re crashing out. Any of you want to come along?

This huge guy we’d got a nodding acquaintance with during our time in the jail, and the nodding was the total of the acquaintance since he was a very silent guy, Norbert Smith his name was, steps forward. I could understand why. He was waiting trial for murder.

John says, Okay, Norbert, you’re with us. He unlocks the barred door, lets him out, waves at the jumble of captured guns, says, Take your pick.

Smith looks at John’s machine gun. John holds it up, says, You rather have this? Smith nods. John says, Okay. He hands Smith his machine gun, fast explains to him how it operates and, for himself, again pulls his .45 out of his waistband.

I said, Is that pistol all you’re going to take? I pointed toward the heap of weapons. Why not at least a shotgun or rifle?

He held up the .45 and said, Rather rely on this. Look how far it’s got us already. This is a lucky gun. He turns to the other prisoners and says, Anyone else want to come?

They all looked at one another as if they’d like a few hours to think it over. John says, Write me when you decide. He locks them in again, says to them, And remember, we got machine guns now so keep yourselves and those guards and the warden quiet or we’ll come back and blast the bunch of you. Shorty, Norbert, let’s go.

Still taking Bump, we headed this time for the back of the jail, watching for armed guards along our path. John said, According to Cluny, the jail garage is back this way. So maybe we can grab a car.

At the back, we went down winding iron stairs, came to a chipped, green-painted door lettered Garage.

John said to Bump, You know whether there’s guards in the garage?

Bump said, No.

John said to Norbert and me, Well, then, beyond that door could be shooting. So set your guns. He smiled at Bump and said to him, But maybe they’ll have regard for innocent human life and give over to us. He light-pushed Bump’s back and said, So lead the way.

Bump said, Why do I always get the danger position?

John said, You’re the only hostage. Feel honored.

We moved cautiously on into the garage. It was full of people. One was looking toward the door as we came through it. His jaw fell open and he said, My God, it’s Donner, and he put his hands up without being asked, his cigarette still between his fingers.

We were lucky. None of the many people in the garage had weapons handy. We rounded the people up and found they were the jail cook and his kitchen assistants who were down there having a smoke before getting lunch, four trusties who worked on maintaining the cars, three farmers in long raincoats. The three farmers were members of the sheriff’s volunteer force of guards, had been watching the back of the jail, had just stepped inside for coffee. They’d stacked their two shotguns and a rifle over against a wall while drinking the coffee, so small use, to them. Besides all these people, there was a gray-haired woman in a gray uniform. The others were scared. She was annoyed. She said to John, You have no manners if you’d point a gun at a lady.

John said, What’s a lady doing in a jail?

Bump said, Mrs. Hastings is the keeper for the female prisoners.

She looked cross at Bump and said, "Not ‘keeper.’ Matron."

Bump said, Yes, that’s what I meant. Matron.

She said to John, And when my son-in-law finds out you’re trying to escape, you’ll regret it.

He said, I will? Why?

She said, Because he’s the warden.

He looked at her, then at me and said without expression, We’ve captured the warden’s mother-in-law.

She said, That’s right. And when he finds out.…

John said, He’s already found out. We got him locked up.

She looked at him sharp like she thought he was lying, drew in her breath and opened her mouth to say something, instead closed her lips tight and looked irritated.

While Norbert and me covered the group with our machine guns, John quick looked over the cars in the garage. There were three police cars, red police lights on the front bumper, gold police emblems on the door. Since our aim was to get lost, not stand out, these weren’t ideal getaway cars. There was one private car, a black 1931 Dodge sedan, but no keys. John said to Bump, Where’d be the keys?

Bump said, It’s the warden’s car. I suppose he’s got them.

John slapped his gun barrel against his other palm, said, Damn, I should’ve searched the bastard. He catches himself, nods apologetic at the mother-in-law, says, I mean, ‘the warden.’

I said, What now?

He said, I don’t frankly for the moment know. But we can kayo these cop cars from chasing us in case we find a ride. He ran around the garage, yanking loose the starter wires of the police cars.

Clatter from the iron stairway beyond the door. I swung my gun around. A woman runs into the garage, runs up past us all, not even noticing us, to the mother-in-law, says, Mother, Tom is locked up in the cellblock and he says John Donner is loose.

Her mother just looks at her, then says, He certainly is.

This new woman, who is obviously from this the warden’s wife, wheels to Bump, says, Well, Merwin, I see you have apparently heard the word. Are you forming a posse for.… She looks at Norbert and me pointing machine guns at everybody, then sees John walking toward her, smiling, holding his .45. She says, Oh, Lord. You’re him.

She wobbles. John grabs her arms, says, Here, don’t faint. This concrete floor, you could break a bone. He looks at Bump, says, Well, make yourself useful, Merwin. Hold the lady up.

Bump steadies the wife by both arms, says, Mrs. Cook, this is just a simple jail break. So just do whatever Mr. Donner instructs, all right?

John says to Norbert and me, We’ll just have to risk the guards and go outside and hunt a car.

I said, I don’t care if we have to walk. Let’s get out of this jail.

John says to Bump, Anyplace close we might get a car?

Bump says, Well, there’s a private repair garage next door. I think people sometimes park in there.

John said, Then that’s our next stop. Providing we don’t get shot soon as we step outside.

He questioned the three farmers whether anybody besides them was guarding the back of the jail. They said they didn’t know. Lying, of course, but there was no time or particular way to get the truth. We took their three raincoats, paraded the farmers and the warden’s wife and mother-in-law and the other captives to the jail laundry room which was off the garage and locked them all in there except Bump.

We moved to the side door which Bump said opened out onto the street behind the jail. That was the area the three farmers had been guarding. The garage had no windows so we couldn’t see whether there were more guards.

John and me put on the farmers’ raincoats. The third raincoat, from the biggest farmer, wasn’t big enough for Norbert. He was a bruiser. But John told him to sling the coat over his shoulders to hide his machine gun under. Norbert did so. He was still silent as ever. Through the whole escape he hadn’t yet said a word.

I likewise hid my machine gun under my raincoat. John gave his .45 a pat for luck and said, Well, now we find out whether it was all for nothing. He pulled open the door, pushed Bump through the doorway and moved out after him. Norbert and me followed fast.

Out on the rainy street, we looked fast around. Nobody. Despite all their protections, nobody watching the back of the jail. John let out his breath and grinned. He said, I guess that shows them and their escape-proof jail.

I said, We’re bare out the door. Let’s congratulate ourselves when we’re far.

He grinned up at the jail, said, And besides escaping, we even took a pack of their ten million guards and locked them behind their own bars. Jesse James himself would have had to go some to match that.

I said, Would Jesse James hang around the jail gabbing about it? Let’s go.

He patted my back, said, If our luck’s lasted this far, it’ll take us the rest of the way. He said to Bump, Stroll easy to this repair garage. We’re just four guys out for a walk.

The cold rain was beating down and, season still early March, there were clumps of wet dirty snow alongside the sidewalk and in the gutter. Bump ahead, we all four walked carefully casually down the street along the back of the jail to a garage that was butted up against the jail building. The sign over the big doors said, A-l Garage. The doors were open. From inside, the whine of a drill.

We went on in. The garage was big and greasy. Car rack, work bench, stacked displays of oil cans and, to one side, six parked cars. Across from the parked cars was a brown rumble-seated Willys coupe with the hood up. A work light was clipped to the engine. In its brightness, a mechanic in greasy coveralls was bent over the engine, his back to us, drilling loudly at something. Holding his .45 in sight but not pointing it, John walked to him and tapped his shoulder.

The mechanic straightened and turned, holding a whirring drill. He showed no reaction to John’s gun. As I guess John had figured, what with all the guards around, the guy would be used to armed men.

John spoke, but the noise of the drill drowned him. He smiled at the mechanic and tapped the drill, clank, with the barrel of his gun. The mechanic clicked off the drill. John said, We’re a posse. A prisoner just escaped from the jail. Which car in here is the fastest?

The mechanic pointed with the drill to a blue sedan, a two-door 1934 Ford Super V-8. He said, Probably that one. It belongs to Sheriff Haines.

John said, Oh, the lady sheriff. Good. Go get into the back seat, will you please, fellow?

The mechanic said, I’m busy.

John said, What’s your name?

The mechanic said, Sam Edgars.

John said, Well, Sam, I’m deputizing you as a member of this posse. Get in the car.

This Edgars said, Well, I’ve got to work, but if I’m being deputized, well, all right. He looked put out, but set down the drill, clicked off his work light, wiped his hands on a rag and went and climbed into the back seat of the sheriff’s blue sedan.

John said, Norbert, get in back there with Sam, will you? Norbert did so, machine gun now in the open. John said to me, You and me in front. To Bump, You’re voted driver. Get in.

Bump got in behind the wheel. John got in beside him with his .45 automatic. I squeezed in beside John with my machine gun. The keys were in the ignition. John said loud for Edgars’ benefit, I think this escaped prisoner would head the quickest way out of town. So that’s the way to go, Merwin.

The car was parked with its grille to the garage wall. Bump backed, turned, wheeled out of the garage into the street behind the jail. As he started to turn left down the street, Edgars said, Wait, I have to lock the garage. Bump automatically braked. Edgars jumped out of the car and walked back to his garage.

We sat there, the car lengthwise across the middle of the street behind the jail. John said, looking sore, We drive off without him, he’ll be suspicious. We’ll just have to wait for the son of a bitch.

I said, Why’d you bring him anyway?

He said, So when they discover the escape, he won’t be right there handy to describe what car we took. He turns to Bump and says, Don’t tip what’s going on. We don’t want any nervous wrecks on our hands.

So while Edgars locked his garage, there we sat and waited, left rear door standing open where Edgars had got out, car blocking the street behind the jail both ways, John and me and Norbert watching both up and down the street for guards to come around the sides of the jail, watching the back of the jail for them to come out that way, listening for noises from within the jail that might indicate the break had been discovered. This went on for what seemed some time while Edgars closed the two big doors of his garage and padlocked them.

As Edgars came walking back toward the car, John said to Bump, Remember, quickest way out of town. And fast but not too fast. No attracting of attention, that’s the ticket.

Edgars climbed back into the car, closed the door, said, Okay.

John turned, smiled at him, said, Everything locked up nice and tight to your absolute perfect satisfaction now, Sam?

Edgars said, Yes.

John said, smiling, Well, that’s good. Because we sure wouldn’t want to leave otherwise. He turned around again, and his smile went away, and he said to Bump, Okay, for God’s sake, move it.

Bump turned the car from its lengthwise position straddling the street in back of the jail, drove left down the street, turned onto a street that ran along the side of the jail. The sidewalk was lined with armed guys. The street was narrow, and these guys standing there in the rain in their hats, raincoats, rubbers or boots and each with a shotgun, rifle, machine gun or pistol were only yards away as we drove past them. I put my hand up alongside my face to shield it, pretending to be scratching my forehead. John, seated between Bump and me, had his head way down, chin buried in his collar.

I said, Why are we going this way?

He said, I don’t know. It’s crazy. Head still down, he said low aside to Bump in tense voice, Why are we driving past the jail?

Bump said, cheek twitching, Well, you said quickest way.

John said, But not past all the armed men around the jail.

Bump said in a high voice, Well, how am I to know when you don’t mean what you say? I’m only trying to do what I’m told.

John, still head down, said fast whisper, All right. Pipe down. It’s all right It’s fine. But just get us away from here, huh?

Bump said, higher voice, Well, I’m only trying to do my best, that’s all, and this is the closest street that.…

John whispered through tight jaw, Get us away, God damn it!

Bump neared girlish, I’m doing my best!

As he said this, we reached a corner and Bump, in his tension, both stepped on the gas and swung the wheel hard right. We rounded the corner violently, tires squealing, the car skidding and tipping onto its two right wheels on the wet pavement.

As we careened, John and me looked up and to the right. We were rounding the front of the jail. The steps and lawn were clustered with men, standing in the rain in their rainwear, holding all manner of guns and all staring in surprise at us as we came squealing and skidding and tipping around the corner.

The car came out onto the flat of the street, bounded jokingly back onto its four tires, and we went skidding and swervingly speeding on past the front of the jail. We were passing on the jail side of the street and so all this bunch of armed guys weren’t many yards farther away than the guys on the side street had been. John and me were froze, too surprised to move and also realizing that ducking might only draw more attention. So we just sat there, staring through the rain-blurred windshield and right-side window of the car at this pack of gun-bearing guards staring back at us as Bump drove past them.

They made no signs of recognizing us, just stood looking at us with expressions, on what we could see through the rainy window, as if wondering what the people in the car were in such a hurry about. As we continued on down the street, I looked very slightly back towards them. Some were leaning out, looking after us, but none were making movements of recognition, just standing there in puzzlement and curiosity in the rain with all their armaments, watching us leave.

It wasn’t until several blocks farther on down the street, still speeding, swerving and sliding on the wet street, Bump’s foot in his fright still heavy on the gas, that I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out in slow sigh. John was sitting up, face tight, looking straight ahead through the windshield. He drew in a breath, shoulders and chest lifting with it, let it out through his teeth and said matter of fact, Right across the front of the jail. He looked at Bump and his voice climbed, Right across the.…

Bump said almost squeal, You said get off the side street! And, besides, this is the main street and quickest way out of town!

John slumped back. His shoulders fell. He waggled his hand in the air and said in a tired voice, All right, just keep driving.

Bump said, Well, you did say.…

John said, I know. You’re right. I did say that. It’s all my fault. Just.… He waggled his hand again, let it fall into his lap. Just keep driving. But slower, huh? Slow it? Because.… He closed his eyes a second. Well, because why get stopped for speeding?

Bump slowed to a normal speed and we went on a couple blocks, windshield wiper thumping, tires sizzling on the wet pavement, rain beating the hood and roof. I was listening for sirens, wondering if the escape had been discovered yet, wondering if any guard had recognized us in afterflash.

From the back seat, Edgars said, You see all those guys with guns around the jail?

John and I sat still. Then John said, Yes, we did, Sam.

Edgars said, Then how come me?

John turned, looked at him, said, What you mean?

Edgars said, All those armed guys to draw from, and you take me away from my work and deputize me to chase an escaped prisoner and when I don’t even have a gun, in fact. He leaned forward, looking annoyed. Yeah, what about that? With no gun, what use am I if you catch up with this escaped prisoner? Why, in fact, I’m endangered. I can’t even defend myself.

John said, Don’t worry. We got plenty enough guns here in case this escaped prisoner wants trouble.

Edgars says, Then all the more why me?

John says, Oh, well, about that.… He rubs his chin, his eyes flick, then he smiles. You see, about that, Sam, in the state of Indiana, you have to have five to make a legal posse. That’s the law.

Edgars says, Oh. He sits back. Well, I didn’t know that.

John says, No reason you should have.

Edgars again looks annoyed, says, Even so, why not one of those guys from around the jail?

John said, They’re needed there to guard Donner.

Edgars says, Oh. Oh, yeah. That’s right.

John said, And since they already spared us four from the guard, we didn’t dare weaken the forces more. With those hundreds of gangster friends of Donner’s who might attack the jail to free him.

Edgars said, My wife worries about that. A giant gun battle between the guards and the Donner rescuers, and there I am right next to the jail.

John said, Yeah, that’d be a hot spot all right.

Bump tromps the brakes. We all lurch as the car jolts to a stop. John says, Well, now, what the hell?

Bump points ahead through the windshield. Red light.

John says, Red light. Oh, well, that’s very intelligent and good citizen and civic-minded of you, Merwin. He lowers his voice so that Edgars can’t hear. Except we’re escaping from jail and we got no idea how close behind the cops and state troopers and National Guard and maybe United States Army, Navy, and Marines might be. He takes a quick glance around the intersection for cops. He said, I don’t see anybody around to argue with us, so run the red light.

Bump said, It’s dangerous. What about the traffic?

John said, still low-voiced, Guns that could blast you, and you’re worrying about traffic danger. Run the red light.

Bump says, Well, you’re the boss. He runs the red light. Cars honked, and a little kid crossing the street yelled at us, but nobody rammed us and no policeman was in sight to whistle. In the heart of town. Luck and chance. If we’d been ordinary citizens who’d run the light by mistake, a dozen cops would have popped out of the pavement with their summons books.

As we drove on down the street, Bump said, eyes on the road, I just wish you’d stick to one rule. First you say don’t speed and draw attention, then you say run a red light. How am I supposed to know how to do when you keep changing instructions?

John said low, Well, I don’t mean to mix you up, Merwin, but making a getaway, you have to fit your action to each situation as it comes. The street led on out into the countryside. When well outside town, John directed Bump to start turning off onto side roads and back roads. This was of course to shake off pursuing. Same purpose, we’d occasionally swing back onto a main concrete road a bit, then off again onto more side and back roads.

The day was gray, rain beating. The fields still had snow on them. Where the rain had melted here and there through the snow, the grass in the fields was brown. The trees were bare-branched, washed clean of snow by the rain, black with the wet. The back roads, being dirt, were today mud. They became a churn of mud as we drove through them.

From the back, Edgars said, You fellows while you been guarding him seen Donner in person?

John looked at him in the rear-view mirror, said, Three times.

Edgars said, Every newspaper picture he looks different. My wife went with that crowd to see him when they arraigned him at the courthouse. She says he doesn’t look like a criminal.

John said, Well, with all respect to your wife, Sam, to me he just looks like the kill-crazy yellow rat the authorities say.

Edgars said, Any of you talked to him?

John said, Twice.

Edgars said, What’s he like?

John said, Dumb.

Edgars said, He is? The newspapers say he’s smart. For a criminal.

John said, If he’s smart, what’s he doing in a jail?

Edgars said, Well, I guess you got a point there.

John said, The newspapers build these rats up so as to get readers. But how much brains it take to walk into a bank with a gun?

Edgars said, I guess there’s something in what you say.

John said, Sure, these rats are all the same, stupid yellow robbers and killers.

Edgars said, But he pleaded not guilty to that Easton holdup and killing.

John said, These rats always play innocent.

We drove on in our this way and that, confuse the pursuers’ way. We passed farmhouses, red and white in the gray of the rainy Indiana day, brick silos red and yellow. Among the snowy fields were early-plowed fields, dark and muddy under the rain. Horses were standing under trees, and cows were lying down, and sometimes in the plowed fields there’d be a tractor or harrow covered with canvas with the rain beating on it.

From the back, after silence, Edgars said, Concerning Donner.…

John said, Yes, Sam?

Edgars said, Well, I realize that you fellows have to have the law’s viewpoint on him, and I don’t want to offend you, but, well, speaking as an ordinary person, I don’t think too badly of Donner.

John said, Sam, how can you say that?

Edgars said, And my wife feels the same. And I know other people who do. You’d be surprised how many.

John turned and looked at Edgars and said, Sam, you’re not talking like a good citizen.

Edgars said, There’s crimes and there’s crimes. For instance, if Donner killed that policeman, he should go to the electric chair. But what’s so wrong with robbing banks?

John said, I’m sorry to hear you talk like this, Sam.

Edgars said, Well, maybe you haven’t had the experience with banks that some people have had in this Depression. Foreclosing left and right on the entire belongings of hard-working, honest people.

John said, But that’s no excuse for a Donner to —

Edgars said, My brother-in-law. He had a chattel mortgage on his farm and then couldn’t sell his crops for a proper price. What happens? Despite he’d been making the payments honest and regular for years, the bank forecloses and sells his whole farm and home, including even the furniture, at public auction to get their mortgage money.

John said, Well, that’s too bad, but still.…

Edgars said, And my friend, Mort Johnson. Short of cash and misses just one loan payment and the bank foreclosed on his lunch counter and house both, and now him and his wife and four kids are living in a run-down two-room flat, and he’s digging ditches, and his wife’s going around doing washing so they can just simply feed their family.

John said, Well, those are sad tales, all right, but still.…

Edgars said, And those’re only two. I could tell you plenty other such stories.

John said, But still to defend a Donner because of —

Edgars said, "Why, that damn bank, I live in fear of getting sick or hurt because miss one mortgage payment and there could go both my business