AUGUST CLAWSON HELPS CROWE GET AWAY

Continued from: Breaks Jail in Denison

From the Autobiography of Pat Crowe:

Behind him the roar of the gun of the farmer who had tried to intercept him, and who had now reloaded, echoed. But the shot went wild. Between the blood pouring down his face, his rage at the trick the wily jail keeper had played on him and the darkness, Pat hardly cared. Yet the miracle remained. He wasn't injured. It was different with the barb wire as he went through the fence rather more hurriedly than an average man would do under normal conditions. It was a four wire fence instead of a three wire one. Part of his clothing clung to it and the barbs raked him again, fore and aft. Pat jerked himself free and ran again, although his lacerated feet made every step one of pain, which would have been unendurable under other less desperate circumstances.

He knew that a river ran just beyond—the same identical river near which he had been trapped at Dow City, and he made for it with indomitable resolution, pausing only on its bank when under shelter of the brushwood to take off the shoes. He had no time to leave the saws and put on the shoes again. He could hear the galloping of horses, shouts of frenzied men, could discern lights here and there in the distance. But the wire fence which had mangled his body also stayed pursuit by mounted men from that direction and the river was an aid.

East Boyer River near the fork with the North Boyer

He dropped into it, swam with bold strokes down it for some distance and then took to the shore after a climb up steep banks and across a muddy tract of land in which he almost bogged down. Here he entered a large cornfield and scurried far into the heart of it. He was wet through, bleeding from his torn feet and body like a pig that had escaped the butcher, chilled to the bone, and apparently hemmed in. He scooped out some of the soft, damp earth from the place where he stood, hastily gathered together a few stalks and husks, tossed them into the shallow hole, crawled into it himself, drew other stalks and husks over his body and then heaped handfuls of earth from each side upon this covering, until he was fairly well concealed.

Farm born and bred, in his native county, he laid beneath this improvised blanket of vegetation and earth. By degrees he got physically warmer. He was barefoot, without weapons, with not even a watch. He heard the shouts of the posse which galloped hither and yon and up and down, the men shouting "Hey!" to each other.

The farmers were roused. The whole countryside would be against him. Once, a man galloping through the cornfield with a lantern passed within a dozen feet of him. The rider saw nothing. Nor did the others who traversed this field and other nearby acreages for hours, beating up and down relentlessly to recapture him. Night hid the marks of his bare feet in the cornfield. Snug within his concealment, Pat smiled. The searchers went farther afield. He had beat the polly-cage a little after five o'clock of a late October evening.

Until midnight the scouring parties raged and swore and galloped and shouted and hunted all over the vicinity, but well beyond where he lay securely hidden. He was waiting for "zero hour." He could tell time without a watch and without even glancing at the stars winking down in friendly fashion at him. He was farm bred. Suddenly a rooster in a coop at the nearby farmhouse roused from his drowse and gave his first matutinal challenge to the whole world and to the listening fugitive, whose straining ears were waiting this welcome signal.

"Twelve o'clock, and all's well," whispered Pat Crowe to himself. "Now I'll just wait until that feathered alarm clock sounds zero hour. That's the time when the farmer gets cold feet and the sheriffs and harnesses and plainclothes bulls, too, for that matter. At zero hour all their hot blood turns to ice water. "Then, I'll come out." He waited. Presently a light gleamed through the cornstalks at the house and the voices of its resident and his wife came clearly.

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"Did they git him, pa?" asked the woman.

"No, ma, they didn't. He just vanished. The sheriff and his own men have took the road to Dow City. The sheriff says this here was all planned ahead of time. When Pat was 'rested for robbin' the station, the money wasn't on him nor Kane. They caught Kane. He's back in jail. But Pat, he's too smart for them. The sheriff telegraphed all along the line and he put out guards over toward Vail. But Pat didn't go that way. So he must 'a' gone toward Dow City. They'll git him afore morning." The farmer and his wife retired.

When the rooster crowed again Pat rose from his now rather warm couch and shook off fatigue and sleep. He had a few matches, but they had become wet in his swim, and besides, to light one would have been to betray his presence. So he crept cautiously to the stable, entered through an unbarred and open window, and felt his way in the dense blackness along the stalls. He found horses. With great care he inspected their bodies. The one which was still sweating slightly he passed by. He found an amiable steed in another stall, and after much groping, he found a bridle. There was no saddle. The farmer had carried that into the house after his own return.

Pat led the horse back to the cornfield and along it for some distance. Then he vaulted on its back. He was farm bred and could ride without a saddle. Through the dark he rode, along familiar roads of his childhood days, unheard and unseen. He came at last to the house of a German-Pole named August Clawson, who had worked on his father's farm for seventeen years and was thus employed before Patrick Crowe was born. August lived two and one-half miles east of Vail and about five or six miles from the Crowe homestead. Here Pat stabled and blanketed the animal and then he cautiously woke the occupant of the place.

"Vot iss?" asked August, sticking his night-capped head out of the window sleepily. He was an inveterate bachelor and kept house by himself, as well as working in the field during the day.

"It's me—Pat. Come down!" August did. He had heard of Pat's trouble. He had been "in drouble" himself in "der oldt gountry" before emigrating to America, and the Crowe family had been very kind to him. When daylight came he bathed Pat's wounded feet and body with skunk and rattlesnake grease, a panacea for all human ills for man or beast. He gave him a bath, a warm meal, clean underclothing, and rough, but not illfitting overalls, shirt, shoes, and a hat.

"I've got to get some sleep," said Pat. "I'll go up into your garret. I've left a horse in your barn. Stick around the house, August, and don't go into the field today, for the bulls may come and look at the stable if you're not here."

August agreed. Pat went to sleep. He woke to hear voices. He peered timorously out of the garret window, which was open. A marshal from another village and four men were in a buggy with two seats, talking to August at the gate.

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"Veil, of all dings I efer heardt in all my hull life!" said August. "Vich vay did he go? Sure, I know Pat Crowe! Know him seence he vos so high!"

There was much other talk and then the officers drove on. Dusk fell. Pat came down from the garret. He thanked his benefactor, took the horse from the stable, and in the darkness went cross-lots to the home of his brother-in-law's brother. Here he was driven to town. Blood was, and is, thicker than water.

Main Street, Vail, Iowa

At Vail he waited on the steps of a little church, tying his horse to the post as the parishioners did who came there to worship. It was the same church in which he had been confirmed in the faith of his fathers and in which he had received his first communion.

He waited until his father and other relatives drove out toward it. It was a different meeting than Patrick Crowe had planned when he had revisited his birthplace a few weeks before to see his surviving parent. He was then a fugitive, but not for crimes committed in his native State. While his father and he talked his other relatives went to get more suitable clothes and linen, a hat and shoes. One owned an interest in a department store in Vail. When the clothes were brought, together with two hundred dollars in cash, Pat's father kissed him farewell and wept.

"I will probably never see you again, my son!" said he brokenly.

He never did. Pat Crowe untied the stolen horse and rode away into the darkness.