Volume 18 , Issue 18

NW Okie's Journey

Another week passed us by and April is no more. Happy May Day 2016 to everyone out there. We came back to Alva, Oklahoma, Sunday on May Day to find our light purple and dark Irises blooming in our front yard. Just beautiful.

We decided to continue our research on Oklahoma outlaws, especially concerning Charles Arthur "Pretty Boy" Floyd, who was slain 23 October 1934 in Ohio, as it appeared on the front page of The Evening Review, East Liverpool, Ohio, 23 October 1934, Tuesday, with the following headlines: "Floyd Slain In Flight, Defiant, But Minus His Fighting Bravado."

Found on Newspapers.com

Charles Arthur "Pretty Boy" Floyd, infamous outlaw whose bullets blazed a crimson path over a dozen midwestern states, was dead.

Armed to the hilt, the braggart sought as the trigger man in the Kansas City union station killings of June, 1933, turned tail and ran when the law caught up with him. Fifteen bullets tore into his body - most of them into his back.

The desperado, listed as Public Enemy No. 1, since the death of John Dillinger exactly three months before, was mortally wounded at 4:25 p.m., Monday on the farm of Mrs. Ellen Cockle, Sprucevale road, seven miles north of East Liverpool, Ohio.

His nemesis was Melvin Purvis of the department of justice - the man who got Dillinger - aided by three of his agents, Chief of Police Hugh McDermott and three local patrolmen. So lacking in drama, so quick, was the death of the desperado that it shocked the peaceful countryside only after the full import of the slaying became known.

Floyd crumpled up in a corn field, 500 feet from a corn crib where he had taken momentary refuge, before heading toward a wooded ridge.

Only an hour before he had appeared at Mrs. Conkle's farm, tired, disheveled, dirty.

Hunger had driven him out of Beaver Creek valley in the sparsely settled Sprucevale section. He rapped at the back door of the house. Mrs. Conkle, cleaning a smokehouse nearby, called a response to the stranger.

"I'm lost and I want something to eat," said Floyd. "I'll pay you."

Mrs. Conkle fixed a meal for him. Floyd was polite, but Mrs. Conkle did not like his looks. She lived alone on the farm. Floyd washed up in the kitchen. Mrs. Conkle told him to go out on the porch until his meal was ready, Floyd talked. He asked for newspapers. Mrs. Conkle grew suspicious.

The desperado manufactured a story. He and his brother had been hunting Sunday, he said, and they got lost in the woods at night and became separated. Cannily, Mrs. Conkle asked him what they had been hunting.

"Squirrels," replied Floyd, "Or rabbits, or anything."

"You don't hunt squirrels at night, do you?" asked the widow. Floyd changed tactics, "TO tell you the truth, lady," he said " I got drunk last night, and I don't know where I am exactly. I'll pay you if you drive me into Youngstown."

Youngstown was some 38 miles north of her farm. Floyd ate. It was a good meal. He told Mrs. Conkle as much and paid her a dollar.

Out in the farmyard, he met Stewart L. Dyke, a brother of Mrs. Conkle, who had been husking corn, and asked for a ride to Youngstown. Dyke refused. He had to go home, he said. "I'll take you to East Carmel, though," offered Dyke.

He backed up the car, Floyd was int he rear seat. Mrs. Dyke sat with her husband. At that moment two automobile loads of officers appeared inter cars. Floyd paled. He barked at Dyke. "Drive behind the corn crib," he ordered. Dyke started the car. "Get going!" shoed Floyd with a burst of profanity. The desperado pulled a gun and jumped from he car. He ran for refuge toward the corn crib. Meantime the officers - eight department of justice agents and police - scrambled from their machines, guns ready.

Floyd started to run for a nearby wooded ridge. "Halt!" yelled Purvis. Floyd ran. "Fire!" ordered Purvis. Fifteen bullets tore into the Oklahoma bandit's body. He went down, fatally wounded. Purvis approached him.

Deftly, handcuffs were slipped on Floyd's wrists. Here, Floyd's vanity got the better of him. As he lay dying, he apparently thought not of his own life,or those of his wife and child. "Who the hell tipped you?" He asked.

Purvis began questioning him about the Kansas City massacre. But Floyd was tight-lipped.

"He wouldn't admit it," said Purvis later. But he did admit his identity. "I am Floyd," he said. Then, Where is Eddie?" Evidently he referred to Adam Richetti, his partner in crime who was held at Wellsville. Richetti also was wanted for the Kansas City slayings.

Dazed, weakened by loss of blood, Floyd thought the officers' gunfire and reached him only twice. "You got me twice," he said. His voice choked. Floyd's last few words were the secret of Purvis. The bandit talked, but Purvis did not disclose what he said. The officers picked up the wounded fugitive and carried him to the highway. He died before they placed him in an automobile. It was not the Floyd of old who asked Mrs. Conkle for a meal. It was a man hunted who knew not where to turn.

Nor was it it the dapper Floyd who used to ride into Sallisaw, Oklahoma, to visit his mother, the man who used to rob banks in familiar haunts and joke with old friends while he fondled weapons which were his only protection against death at the hands of peace officers.

Good Night! Good Luck!
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