“Here’s the story,” Doolin called out. “Anybody that wants to run has five seconds to get moving. After that, I lock the door.”
There was a rush as ten prisoners crowded through the door. The others, now reduced to twenty-two in number, remained where they were. Doolin slammed the door, locking it, and stuck the key in his pocket. He nodded to Clifton, then led the way along the corridor to the empty front office. The prisoners followed him across the room and abruptly jarred to a halt as he stopped at the street door. Before anyone could react, he and Clifton suddenly turned on them with pistols leveled.
“Listen close,” Doolin said with an ominous smile. “You boys are gonna give me and Dick a five-minute head start. Anybody pokes his head out this door beforehand is liable to get it shot off.”
“Like hell!” Lane bellowed. “You and me worked all this out before Clifton ever showed up. You’re not leavin’ me behind.”
“Count your blessings, George.” Doolin gave him a hard stare. “I sprung you and the rest of these boys, and you’re free to run. Try to follow me and I’ll kill you.”
None of the prisoners, Lane included, doubted his word. While Clifton kept them covered, Doolin cracked the door open and peeked outside. The street was deserted for a block in either direction; farther downtown he saw the usual evening traffic. He stepped through the door, followed closely by Clifton. They walked west along Second Street.
Doolin’s original plan had been to jump the evening freight train. Every night shortly after being locked in his cell, he’d heard the whistle as the train rolled through Guthrie. But as they approached the rail yards, he made a spur of the moment decision. George Lane, who’d been his new partner until Clifton appeared, was aware of the plan. Should Lane be caught, there was no question that he would betray them. His decision was influenced as well by unexpected opportunity.
Ahead, Doolin saw a buggy slow for the Second Street rail crossing. There was no one else about, and he quickly explained the new plan to Clifton. They separated, Doolin moving to the other side of the street, and approached from opposite directions. As the buggy cleared the rail crossing, Clifton scurried forward and grabbed the horse’s bridle. The driver hauled back on the reins, and the woman beside him uttered a startled shriek. Doolin stuck a cocked pistol in the driver’s face.
“Keep quiet and you won’t get hurt. Climb down out of there.”
The man obeyed with alacrity, and the woman, her eyes filled with terror, clambered out the other side. Doolin took the reins, hefting himself into the driver’s seat, and waited for Clifton to scramble aboard. Lowering the hammer on his pistol, he stuffed it into his waistband and reined onto the road beside the railroad tracks. The man and the woman heard the reins pop, and the horse broke into a run. The buggy rattled south out of town.
“Shoulda shot ’em,” Clifton muttered. “They’ll hightail it to the law.”
“Don’t matter,” Doolin told him. “First farm we spot, we’ll steal ourselves some horses.”
“You aim to head for the Nations?”
“Straight as a string.”
“Then what?”
“Dunno yet. I’m thinkin’ on it.”
They drove on into the night.
CHAPTER 41
The press treated Doolin’s escape with more sensationalism than had been devoted to his capture. The chief jailor, along with guards Jack Tull and Joe Miller, were crucified in front-page articles. Doolin was portrayed as a mastermind who had engineered a daring getaway.
Patrick Nagle emerged relatively unscathed. On the job less than a month, his performance as U.S. marshal drew little criticism from the newspapers. Yet enormous pressure was brought to bear by Governor Renfrow personally, and by way of stinging telegrams from the attorney general in Washington. Additional rewards were posted, and Nagle was ordered to find and kill the remaining members of the Wild Bunch. Failure would not be tolerated.
Nagle had anticipated the firestorm. On the night of the breakout, he had summoned Tilghman and Thomas to his office. In total, thirteen prisoners had escaped, and he sought their counsel in organizing a manhunt. Federal marshals, working with county sheriffs, were ordered into the field. By late the following morning, squads of lawmen were raiding known outlaw haunts throughout the territory. The heaviest concentration of peace officers was positioned along the border with the Nations. There was general consensus that Doolin and Clifton would make a run for their old sanctuary.
Tilghman and Thomas spent a full day interrogating witnesses around Guthrie. Their first session was with the couple whose buggy had been stolen at gunpoint the previous night. From the description, the lawmen felt reasonably certain that the thieves were Doolin and Clifton. But then, late that morning, George Lane and three other inmates were returned to jail after being caught near the railroad tracks outside town. Lane, who was furious at Doolin, readily agreed to cooperate. The story he told merely muddied the waters.
According to Lane, Doolin had planned to hop the southbound freight train the night before. Yet that in no way gibed with the theft of the buggy just minutes before the train passed through Guthrie. The lawmen hardly thought Doolin would attempt flight in a buggy, which confined travel to roads and could be easily spotted. They were left to ponder if he’d ditched the buggy and hopped the train somewhere south of town. That seemed the more likely prospect.
Wires went out alerting officers at stops along the train line. But then, shortly after the noon hour, a farmer added a new twist to the manhunt. His farm was three miles south of
