An Account of Two Fugitives
This article was written by Keith Mathews, in April of 1983 for Tulsa Monthly.

Art Mullen was feeling confused by the statement he had just heard. By all accounts, he had been told that the two fugitives he had been sent to Texas to take into custody, were people who were not expected to surrender easily. They had proved somewhat right over the past week, steadily evading capture to Mullen's frustration. At the moment, he felt exhausted, confused, and waterlogged.

Maybe he hadn't heard what had just been said clearly.

He put the speakerphone up and spoke again, over the drizzling, punishing rain, "Can you repeat that?"

The response to him came from Dallas Winston, voice clear. "I'm willing to give him up, full surrender on a single condition: you get an ambulance down here — no tricks no one stupid — now."

Mullen looked at his men and demanded, "Anyone else smelling bullshit?"

Everyone in Tulsa, Oklahoma knows about the Cade murder. In 1965, it was all anyone could talk about from September to March of 1966. Very few people of a certain age can't recall where they were the morning of September 10th when Johnathan Cade Jr., age sixteen, was found slain on the West side of town, in the Gasworks Park.

It was widely reported that his death was by a neck wound so bad that the coroner had trouble conveying the brutality, hours later in a public statement. It was described as "as knife wound so deep his neck was almost severed." His parents, Irene and Johnathan Cade Sr., were soon on the stage, pleading for leads to come forward.

While the Cades casted around publicly for suspects, the teen set of Tulsa already knew who'd done it.

It was known within a few hours via excited gossip that there were three main players in the gruesome slaying: Johnny Cade himself, a rich boy who had received a presentation ceremony so lavish it was reported on breathlessly; Ponyboy Curtis, age fourteen years old and one of the orphaned boys of the Curtis family empire; and Dallas Winston, age reportedly seventeen, who by all accounts, was simply known as a violent delinquent with a long history of crimes ranging from petty theft to physical assaults.

All three had been seen the previous night at The Dingo, which was host to a very unusual spectacle that night of Ponyboy Curtis being with Dallas Winston. What they were doing, was hard to pin down.

Cherry Sheldon, friends at the time with Dallas Winston has always stated, "[Dallas] approached Ponyboy and they kissed. I remember being [...] upset because I had always liked Dallas, and Ponyboy seemed to have snatched him up." She shrugs, copper red hair bouncing. "That was all to it. Anyone else who thinks otherwise is lying."

Well, Evie Thomas disagrees. She was there that night and claims that, "Oh, Dallas forced that poor kid. Shoved him against the rails and… it was very obscene." When pressed for more, she shakes her head, ever the preacher's wife. "Something an alpha should never be doing to such a vulnerable omega."

Whatever it was, class more than dynamics affected everything. Accounts of what happened fall along that line, with the richer, Southsiders insisting that the incident was forced while the Northsiders insisting it wasn't.

No matter the case, everyone agrees that Winston left with Curtis. Cherry Sheldon (neé Valance) and Marcia Walters to walk the girls home. Minutes later, Cade showed up demanded to know where Curtis was, and went after.

From there, it's a black box of knowledge. While evidence suggests that more people were present at the slaying, no one has come forward. The only people who know what happened that night are a dead boy and two people that were harder and harder to find.

In the immediate time after, as the realization of Ponyboy's disappearance, it fell to his brothers to look for him. While there was no evidence of Ponyboy being harmed, his brothers Darrel Curtis Jr. and Sodapop Curtis were left working with the police and the Cades to figure out what had happened to him.

The exercise was fruitless. Despite a sighting at Buck's, a now defunct bar, the two had simply vanished into the night. Time wore on, the rescue was called off and many publicly mourned two of the boys while a third was largely ignored.

Slowly, hope turned from reuniting to the acceptance that one day, a body could be identified.

"It ain't bullshit!" Dallas Winston's voice carries, deep and angry.

Mullen was informed by both Tulsa contacts and the ones in the small town — called Mission — that anger was a defining trait for Dallas. He'd been told that even as a teen, Dallas had no issue with both starting and ending violence, including the Cade murder.

What was confusing him, what made him call bullshit was this. For a fortnight they'd been chasing the fugitives. It was impressive: Ponyboy had shot the tires out from one of his best agents, the both of them had successfully slipped from under their eyes, they'd outrun them, and they had only located them at the church they were now holed up in completely by chance.

Someone had seen Dallas, hours before, coming out of the basement. She had called them after recognizing him, and now Mullen was here, trying to gauge him.

It was difficult given the fact that they were all exhausted. The elements themselves had seemingly been on their side, and Mullen was exhausted and not up to his usual form.

He looked at Dallas Winston. The man was supposedly in his mid-thirties, brown hair plastered onto his forehead from the drizzling rain, black shirt sticking to him, but a shotgun still in his hands. The muzzle was pointed down, he was an alpha — one notoriously brutal — a towering six foot and three inches, and twenty pounds on Mullen.

Mullen makes a choice.

"Hold your fire. This is an official negotiation."

At the moment, there is very little in the way of how Ponyboy Curtis and Dallas Winston ended up in Mission, Texas. All that is currently known is that Greg Goodwin showed up on a small farm, intent on selling Holden International's new farm equipment. It was a hard sell in smaller towns, and Greg knew that it would probably be the case here too.

His strategy was simple, usually: if he couldn't convince the farm owners, he'd convince the farm hands. Get the ones who worked the most to convince those who worked the least. The strategy had worked previously across varying small towns and he thought that, on the sunny April day, he could do the same thing at this small farm.

When he approached the farm hands, he found roughly four of them on the property: Franklin Green, Ethan McDoogan, Joshua Jones and Amy Carter. The four hands were all generally willing to only listen to a few sentences and all would cut him off and tell him that he should speak to the owner, Michael Wesson.

Greg was frustrated. He didn't want to. The owners were always the hard sell.

However, he had no choice when the owner came out of a barn, wiping his hands and looking at Greg with suspicion.

And where Michael Wesson looked at him with suspicion, Goodwin was floored. "It was like I was talking to a ghost who didn't know he was a ghost! I was frozen the whole time he was there, picking at me over the sales." Michael Wesson looked every bit like a Curtis: good looking, unusually tall for an omega, and with a familiar Tulsan drawl. All things that Greg noticed.

And too, he noticed that he wasn't using his old name, but his middle name. Greg did what he could, giving "Michael" his personal business card and leaving. His mind raced as he went back to the main part of Mission.

Surely maybe he was wrong.

Greg, ever persistent, checked around town. The hands had informed him that "Michael" had a mate. So Greg conducted his own investigation into the matter. Over a number of days, he asked questions about them both, asked about their habits and life.

What he gathered was worrisome: "Michael" had a mate named Dallas, who was known to be an explosive alpha. "Michael" rarely left the farm they had and it was told to him that "Michael" had been dragged out of town by Dallas more than once. That no one knew much of them.

Spurred on by what he thought was obvious, Greg placed a call to the U. S. Marshals Service.

Greg was sure that he was witnessing an ongoing hostage situation. Once he relayed the information to the Marshals Service, so did they.

It took two days for U. S. Marshals Mary Hollingsworth and Robert Kay to reach the farm. The agents thought that they could appeal to the kidnapped "Michael", to give up Dallas.

"I feel as if I almost had him," recounts Hollingsworth, expression sad. "I found Mr. Curtis outside of a barn, where a cow was giving birth. He was armed, hostile but as soon as I mentioned his brother, he seemed to waver. It seemed as if he finally was ready to come home. He told us Mr. Winston was in the house but it was a distraction. Mr. Winston was in the barn — he escaped and fled with the truck of a farm hand. In the process they blew out the tires of our car and was afforded a head start."

A headstart of a full three days. For three grueling, intensive days, the Marshals Service were behind the two fugitives. There has been speculation that the fugitives were aided, yet nothing at this point in time has come out. What is known, however, is that on the third evening, they were spotted near the Red River by a concerned, anonymous source.

In minutes, the Marshals Service mobilized armed with men, women, and dogs. And, unfortunately, an unpredictable spring storm.

"goddammit," the rain is at a drizzle, and dallas doesn't like it. on the wind, he can scent the agents chasing them, and there is one thing he doesn't really want to do, and that is to cross a river in the midst of an oncoming storm. particularly not the red river, which is facing them then and there, feet away.

it's in clear view of the road, and there's the risk of the dogs there. ponyboy is beside him, hair still damp from an earlier rain, pushing his hair from his face. he looks at dallas, at the already gushing river before them, and can't help but to say, "wishin' we had a boat about now. or a log."

the mention of the log has dallas looking, even for just one old enough they could topple to get over. the river is rushing, the sound of the dogs baying is growing louder, and time is winding down. he looks at ponyboy — at his wide brown eyes, at the determination there, at the unwavering loyalty there — and reaches out to grip his hand. it's not the soft hand of a boy mostly indoors, the one he had gripped as they'd taken the train to jay mountain. it's a more calloused hand of a man he's cared for for over half of his life, his mate, and he whispers, "soon as i say, pony. we get across."

ponyboy nods, "bags above."

dallas nods, and then, as a dog howls, a bit too close, they dart out of their hiding place.

The Marshals Service came in fifteen agents strong with several K9 Units lent to them by the State Police. Despite the show of force, the two fugitives had the home advantage, so to speak. They understood the lay of the land, and to the surprise of the Service, the two once again, did not surrender.

Instead, they leapt into the Red River as a storm blew in.

And so did the State's canine unit.

"pony!" dallas is taller than him, and he hates that when they hit the water, he was able to surface first. he keeps the bag above his head as the lightning in the sky flashes, as thunder rumbles and mixes with the sound of a barking dog. "pony—!"

"it got—!" there's a drowning of his voice, water rushing and for a moment, as the cold water rushes up, dallas thinks that he'll lose his footing. it takes effort to keep himself steady, gasping for air, keeping the bag above his head. there are lights pointed towards them, and he loses sight of ponyboy.

terror, anger seizes him. he can hear a snarl, a whimper, and then ponyboy's voice carries out, "go! dallas go—!"

and dallas doesn't. he wades back out, and ponyboy bobs back up in the water, rain starting to rain down heavily. there are people yelling, the water is cold but in a wave of strength, he and ponyboy get to the shore together. the rain is coming down in hard, freezing pellets, he can hear people barking orders, and it's ponyboy who grips him by the forearm, slings his bag around and forces dallas up.

he thinks he can scent blood, but can't tell if it's his or ponyboy's or what.

he only knows that they're running past the muddy bank, and they're not being followed.

there's only the sound of a roaring river behind them.

Once again, the fugitives had escaped capture. And for three more grueling days, the Marshal Service was stymied not by their fugitives wits but by nature. One of the worst floods Mission and the surrounding counties had ever seen, struck. The Red River flooded its banks, and the Marshals Service had no way to catch up with the fugitives.

For a good three days, they were concerned that their fugitives were gone, for good. That they would evade capture for days on end. There were heated questions from both Irene Cade — who was on nightly, demanding information — and from Darrel Curtis, who issued a scathing public statement expressing his disappointment with the Marshals.

What no one knew except the two fugitives was that they were now running out of time.

the rain is still coming down in lashes, and dallas still keeps moving forward. he keeps a hand in ponyboy's own, running as fast as they can. he doesn't know if they've gone three miles or five when ponyboy stumbles, whines.

and it's the whine that makes dallas pause. that whine wasn't something made by ponyboy out of desperation or brattiness. that was a whine ponyboy tended to make during heats or when he was hurt, and as dallas rounds on him, he's hoping that it's a sign of an oncoming heat.

except it's not, ponyboy's expression pained, whimpering more. "i… the dog. it got me." there's a color of shame to his voice, and if he could cower, he would. "on the ankle. i can't… i can't run anymore."

he looks down and can see the red on ponyboy's jeans. his heart thunders in his chest, and he lets go of ponyboy's hand, pulls him to him, running his hand through his hair, an assurance. there's no time for more than that bit of soothing that ponyboy needs, "take the bags, okay?"

"but—" ponyboy protests, then he gives another whimper of pain. dallas doesn't have to repeat himself; ponyboy takes both bags, and dallas turns around, guides ponyboy's arms around his neck. he hefts ponyboy up on his back and the sound of relief ponyboy gives is enough.

he's his mate. he doesn't care what it takes to get them out of here.

"shouldn't be too much further," dallas reassures him. "this used to be one of those boom towns that got abandoned a few decades back. should find a place." he doesn't know if it's more to reassure himself over ponyboy, only that he picks up the pace as thunder rumbles out above them.

he can feel ponyboy press a kiss to his ear. dallas clutches his arm tighter, looking for a sign, for any abandoned building he'd remembered out here. the rain clears up, and right when dallas thinks that he might have to stop for rest, he sees something peak up.

pony sees it before he does and he gives a hiccup and then a dry laugh. "a church? again?" his laugh reaches the edge of hysterical, and dallas can't blame him for the reaction. this is a bigger church than the one in windrixville — more than enough room for the two of them and dallas can't help but to give a laugh at it too.

of course. it'd all come back to a church.

he adjusts ponyboy on his back, ponyboy sighing out, "think we should get married again?"

dallas thinks of it, the way ponyboy had grinned at him, the way his hair had been almost to his shoulders. of how he'd clutched his hand in the church back then, and he hums. "don't think you can follow up on the wedding night, right now."

there's a huff of air besides his ear. "just get me cleaned up — i'll be fine after that."

dallas hefts ponyboy up higher, and moves faster. there's a smell of fresh rain, and he doesn't want to do anything now except to get warm.

The fugitives had found an abandoned church, in one of the abandoned boomtowns that had littered Texas in the years after gold rushes and the rush to the west. If all things would have gone according to plan, they would have, indeed, escaped into the night.

There was one problem, however: one of them had sustained an injury from the police dogs.

"fuck—!" ponyboy groans in pain when dallas' fingers touch the tender flesh around the wound. never in his life has dallas hated a dog the way he does now as he looks at ponyboy's injury. the dog had bit down, tore at the skin. they had waded through mud and water, the jeans had been stuck to it and now…

"don't move, i'm gonna see if i can find something to clean this off," he barks out the words harshly, and ponyboy can't do anything but fall back onto the cot there. even though the place was largely abandoned, more than a few vagrants had come and gone in the years. the church basement has a surprising amount of food that was still edible — dallas bets that hippies used it, left, and whatever vagrants had come through, hadn't found it. he looks for alcohol, strong ones, and it takes several rounds of gathering up old, discarded bottles with hardly anything in it to get something to clean the wound with.

a whimper leaves ponyboy, and then a whine as the wound is cleaned out as best as dallas can, sterilized as best he can. it still remains inflamed, red, and dallas can feel the most practical part of him saying that this wasn't something ponyboy could walk off.

that feeling increases on the second day when he wakes up to ponyboy, moaning in his sleep, skin hot to the touch.

his stomach drops with it, able to smell the sick coming off of ponyboy. his mind flashes to another time, in another church, ponyboy feeling feverish to the touch. how they'd pushed it back, until…

dallas chews at a hangnail, gets up and finds water. tries to look for medication in the bags they'd hastily taken with them. there's only wet clothes that he has to hang up in the church, wet money that he also spreads out to dry, and canned food and water and not a single pill bottle.

his eyes grow hot because he feels as if he knows what's going to happen.

It is not uncommon for police dogs to attack on command, as that is what they are used for. However, in this situation, it was looking bad for the two. Ponyboy grew weaker, sicker, and Dallas had to make a calculation: could they leave, or did he have to do something else?

It probably did not help that the Marshals Service was alerted to them, and that the church was surrounded by their third day there. The Marshals Service expected more from Dallas — after all, they had been repeatedly told they had been dealing with a violent fugitive with an uncanny grip on his captive.

Which made it all the more confusing when, close to the fourth day, Dallas Winston came out to approach Art Mullen.

ponyboy's eyes are glassy. dallas can see yellow pus oozing out of his wound, and he knows that this isn't like windrixville. he can't steal a car, break into houses and keep ponyboy at bay for days on end. he can hear the dogs baying, can scent the people outside, and he knows, he knows that they can't go any further.

what kind of mate would he be, to do that to ponyboy? to try and drag him any further, like this, hoping for a miracle that won't ever come?

"dally?" ponyboy's eyes turn to him, and he looks so pale. he's bundled up in the blankets that have been dried, in anything dallas could find. he looks like he always does when he's sick, so small and much more like the delicate kid dallas had met years ago. "is… is someone sick?"

he reaches out, pushes ponyboy's hair back from his forehead, heart heavy. "yeah, baby. someone's… real damn sick." ponyboy blinks slowly at him, unable to do more than that. "i'm gonna go get you something—"

"no," the whine, panicked breaks through. "no, dally — please don't. don't go." his voice is weak, lips chapped. "i don't… we can't separate." he winces, and dallas shakes his head.

"i'll be back. i promise," he reassure ponyboy, standing up. those glassy, brown eyes look up at him, scared, as if he knows. "just give me a few minutes."

there's silence for a moment, and ponyboy's voice is so thin. "am i sick?"

dallas nods. ponyboy closes his eyes, and dallas turns. he grabs the shotgun before ponyboy can say anything, and he looks one more time at the medallion on ponyboy's chest, the st. christopher. thinks of his aunt, telling him it protected travelers and for once in his life, asks that if anything like that is real, he protects fugitives too. he can feel his vision starting to blur, heat rising in his cheeks, and he wipes at his face, forces them back.

and then, he leaves the church.

"And why should we trust what you're saying? How do we know you don't have a bomb or waiting to slit—"

"I don't give a shit about any of that," Dallas snapped at Mullen, seen very clearly by every federal agent. Even Mullen could scent him sharply, with how angry he was in that moment. And then Mullen thought that no, Dallas seemed desperate. "I did whatever you said I did — but Ponyboy didn't have anything to do with it and he's dying from one of your dogs! He's — he's got an infection and he needs treatment. You agree to what I'm asking for, and he doesn't die, and I come in, hands up."

Mullen paused, considering the desperation, the way it doesn't quite fit the profile. And Mullen is not a green man — he's been a U. S. Marshal for almost ten years.

He tried to listen to his training, yet in this moment, Mullen leaned on instinct. An alpha himself, and with the rumors stated that Ponyboy and Dallas were mates. No matter what he was told, even if that union had been in manipulation, instincts can be powerful. "You have a deal — I am calling emergency services now." Mullen signaled to one of his men, with access to an emergency phone.

Dallas didn't leave. Not until the phone was put down, and Mullen communicated, "They will be here in ten minutes. You have fifteen to come back with Ponyboy Curtis. Understood?"

Dallas nodded, and turned around, to go back to the church.

Which left Mullen wondering if he had done the right thing.

he runs. once he gets inside the church, dallas simply runs to ponyboy. they agreed to what he wanted, and that's all he can do now.

when he is back inside, he sees ponyboy is still breathing, the medallion still moving up and down on his chest. carefully, he crouches down, running his fingers across ponyboy's forehead. he has fifteen minutes — though he thinks it's more like thirteen now. thirteen minutes to try and communicate eighteen years of care, of being mates, of trying to tell ponyboy what he has to do now.

how can he do that? how can condense it all, how can he tell him what he's about to do?

he runs his fingers down his cheek, and there's an option. one he has never said, one that he swore he never would unless…

"dal?" ponyboy's voice is weak, and dallas moves, gets him the water. he helps prop ponyboy up — wincing at how light he seems — and once ponyboy gets some water in him, he rubs his back, soothingly. "s'going on?"

"taking you up," his voice is as soft as he can make it, "get some air. get some help."

there's a tired hum in ponyboy's throat, his head lolling against dallas' own. he seems to want to reach up, to touch dallas' face, but his hand drops. that's his cue; dallas pulls the remaining blankets around him, and hefts ponyboy up. he's so painfully light, and dallas nuzzles his forehead against ponyboy's just for a moment, for as much time as he has.

"pony…" dallas starts, stops. "pony, you with me?"

"mm-hm," he sounds more exhausted than ever as dallas moves them down the aisle, one arm behind pony's back, the other beneath his knees. "always. you an' me." he gives a weak little smile, but the way he's breathing is concerning dallas.

dallas wishes for time, so much more time as he takes ponyboy to the side door. ponyboy squirms, whines, and dallas shushes him. "c'mon pony. not much longer now."

ponyboy's eyes crack open, and dallas isn't sure what he's seeing, what he's feeling. there's a thread of trepidation that ponyboy might figure it out, fight him. instead, ponyboy sighs out, "love you. love you… 'm sorry i got hurt."

as if it's his fault. as if it's his fault that stupid dog hurt him, as if it's his fault that the feds came.

even if dallas can't say those words, he still presses a kiss to ponyboy's mouth, still kisses him one more time. it's probably the last time he'll ever have to kiss his mate.

and then he walks out, with five minutes to spare.

The ambulance and Dallas arrived at the same time. Mullen was astonished and concerned at the sight of Dallas, holding Ponyboy's prone body in a bundle of clothes and blankets. When the medics ran to him, Dallas didn't hesitate. He carefully gave up Ponyboy to them, and as promised gave no resistance as they secured Ponyboy away.

There was only a minor moment — Ponyboy seemingly coming to for a moment, asking for Dallas — and then the doors to the ambulance shut.

Almost a week's chase came to an end as Dallas put his hands up and went to his knees for the Marshals Service. Mullen personally put the cuffs on him, and led him away.

On the way to the local station, Mullen only asked Dallas one thing, "Think you'll regret that?"

Dallas didn't respond.

As of this publishing, things are currently working at a slow pace. Dallas is currently waiting for transfer to the Tulsa Police Department, where he will be brought up on charges of murder (the degree is currently pending), kidnapping, and a violation of the Oklahoma Mating Act of 1975 with more charges currently pending. Ponyboy Curtis is reported to be in a private hospital in Oklahoma, recovering from this ordeal.

Only Darrel Curtis has a statement, and he says that he is, "happy to finally have my family together."