TWO BITS
Two Bits was an old race horse well known from Texas to Arizona. He belonged at the time of his death to Lieut. Charles Curtis (now Capt. Curtis, Military Instructor at the University of Wisconsin), who built the first stockade on the site of the present Fort Whipple, Arizona. The incident is true; wounded to his death, the old horse out-ran the Apaches and after his rider, who was severely wounded, fell off, Two Bits went on to Fort Wingate where the sight of his wounds and the bloody pouches told the story. The old horse headed the relief party and led them back to his fallen rider and then dropped dead. The troops, to all of whom the old race horse was a familiar comrade, buried him under a heap of lava bowlders beside the old Government Trail a few miles west of Fort Wingate, New Mexico.
Where the shimmering sands of the desert beatIn waves to the foothills’ rugged line,And cat-claw and cactus and brown mesquiteElbow the cedar and mountain pine;Under the dip of a wind-swept hill,Like a little gray hawk Fort Whipple clung;The fort was a pen of peeled pine logsAnd forty troopers the army strong.At the very gates when the darkness fell,Prowling Mohave and YavapaiSignalled with shrill coyote yell,Or mocked the night owl’s piercing cry;Till once when the guard turned shudderingFor a trace in the east of the welcome dawn,Spent, wounded, a courier reeled to his feet:—“Apaches—rising—Wingate—warn!”“And half the troop at the Date Creek Camp!”The Captain muttered; “Those devils heard!”White-lipped he called for a volunteerTo ride Two Bits and carry the word.“Alone; it’s a game of hide and seek;One man may win where ten would fail.”Himself the saddle and cinches setAnd headed Two Bits for the Verde Trail.Two Bits! How his still eyes woke to the chase!The bravest soul of them all was he!Hero of many a hard-won race,With a hundred scars for his pedigree.Wary of ambush, and keen of trail,Old in wisdom of march and fray;And the grizzled veteran seemed to knowThe lives that hung on his hoofs that day.“A week. God speed you and make it less!Ride by night from the river on.”Caps were swung in a silent cheer,A quick salute, and the word was gone.Sunrise, threading the Point of Rocks;Dusk, in the cañons dark and grim,Where coiled like a rope flung down the cliffs,The trail crawls up to the frowning Rim.A pebble turned, a spark out-struckFrom steel-shod hoofs on the treacherous flint—Ears strain, eyes wait, in the rocks aboveFor the faintest whisper, the farthest glint;But shod with silence and robed with nightThey pass untracked, and mile by mileThe hills divide for the flying feet,And the stars lean low to guide the while.Never a plumed quail hid her nestWith the stealthiest care that a mother may,As crouched at dawn in the chaparralThese two, whom a heart-beat might betray.So, hiding and riding, night by night;Four days, and the end of the journey near;The fort just hid in the distant hills—But hist! A whisper—a breath of fear!They wheel and turn—too late. Ping! Ping!From their very feet a fiery jet.A lurch, a plunge, and the brave old horseLeaped out with his broad breast torn and wet.Ping! Thud! On his neck the rider swayed;Ten thousand deaths if he reeled and fell!Behind, exultant, the painted hordePoured down like a skirmish line from Hell.Not yet! Not yet! Those ringing hoofsHave scarred their triumph on many a course;And the desperate, blood-trailed chase swept on,Apache sinews ’gainst wounded horse.Hour crowding hour till the yells died back,Till the pat of the moccasined feet was gone;And dumb to heeding of foe or fearThe rider dropped,—but the horse kept on.Stiff and stumbling and spent and sore,Plodding the long miles doggedly;Till the daybreak bugles of Wingate rangAnd a feint neigh answered the reveille.Wide swung the gates—a wounded horse—Red-dabbled pouches and riding gear;A shout, a hurry, a quick-flung word—And “Boots and Saddles” rang sharp and clear.Like a stern commander the old horse turnedAs the troop filed out, and straight to the headHe guided them back on that weary trailTill he fell by his fallen rider—dead—But the man and the message saved. And heWhose brave heart carried the double load,With his last trust kept and his last race won,They buried him there on the Wingate road.