Out of the West of Long Ago

The West

When the world of waters was parted by the stroke of a mighty rod, Her eyes were first of the lands of earth to look on the face of God; The white mists robed and throned her, and the sun in his orbit wide Bent down from his ultimate pathway and claimed her his chosen bride; And he who had formed and dowered her with the dower of a royal queen, Decreed her the strength of mighty hills, the peace of the plains between; The silence of utmost desert, cañons rifted and riven, And the music of wide-flung forests where strong winds shout to heaven.

Then high and apart he set her and bade the gray seas guard, And the lean sands clutching her garments' hem keep stern and solemn ward. What dreams she knew as she waited! What strange keels touched her shore! And feet went into the stillness and returned to the sea no more. They passed through her dream like shadows till she woke one pregnant morn And watched Magellan's white-winged ships swing round the icebound Horn; She thrilled to their masterful presage, those dauntless sails from afar, And laughed as she leaned to the ocean till her face shone out like a star.

And men who toiled in the drudging hives of a world as flat as a floor Thrilled in their souls to her laughter and turned with hand to the door; And creeds as hoary as Adam, and feuds as old as Cain, Fell deaf on the ear that harkened and caught that far refrain: Into dungeons by light forgotten, and prisons of grim despair, Hope came with the pale reflection of her star on the swooning air; And the old, hedged, human whirlpool, with its seething misery, Broke bound, as a pent-up river breaks through to the healing sea.

Calling, calling, calling; resistless, imperative, strong; Soldier and priest and dreamer she drew them, a mighty throng; The unmapped seas took tribute of many a dauntless band, And many a brave hope measured but bleaching bones in the sand; Yet for one that fell a hundred sprang out to fill his place; For death at her call was sweeter than life in a tamer race. Sinews and bone she drew them; steel-thewed and the weaklings shrank;Grim-wrought of granite and iron were the men of her foremost rank.

Stern as the land before them, and strong as the waters crossedMen who had looked on the face of defeat nor counted the battle lost;Uncrowned rulers and statesmen, shaping their daily need To the law of brother with brother till the world stood by to heed; The sills of a greater empire they hewed and hammered and turned, And the torch of a larger freedom from their blazing hill tops burned;Till the old ideals that had led them grew dim as a childhood's dream, And Caste went down in the balance, and Manhood stood supreme.

The wanderers of earth turned to her, outcast of the older landsWith a promise and hope in their pleading, and she reached them pitying hands; And she cried to the Old World cities that drowse by the Eastern main: "Send me your weary, house-worn broods, and I'll send you Men again! Lo, here in my wind-swept reaches, by my marshalled peaks of snow, Is room for a larger reaping than your o'er-tilled fields can grow; Seed of the Man-Seed springing to stature and strength in my sunFree, with a limitless freedom no battles of men have won.

For men, like the grain of the cornfields, grow small in the huddled crowd And weak for the breadth of spaces where a soul may speak aloud; For hills like stairways to heaven, shaming the level trackAnd sick with the clang of pavements, and the marts of the trafficking pack:Greatness is born of greatness, and breadth of a breadth profound; The old Antaen fable of strength renewed from the ground Was a human truth for the ages since the hour of Eden-birth, That man among men was strongest who stood with his feet on the earth.

"OUT OF

As rare as the night blooming cereus; as pure in spirit as the mountain stream; refreshing as the pine laden breeze; as strong and rugged of character as the granite peaks; and as wide in sympathy as the wide spreading desert, is Sharlot M. Hall, the little lady of the Old Governor's Mansion and Arizona's beloved poetess laureate.

Sharlot Hall's life is Arizona of the past, present, and future. She, in an indefinable way, is Arizona. As a child she crossed the plains on the old emigrant trails; as a girl she knew life of the early cattle country; as a young woman she thrilled to the adventure of Arizona's robust youth; as a mature woman she sang the courageous hymns of its christen-

THE WEST OF LONG AGO”

days since gone with the love and concern which only age can give to those things held dear. Her life well represents the recorded paroramas of the passing years, events, and generations and her poems are the lyric accompaniment as the humanly photographed cinema is projected upon the screen for later generations to behold.

Within the poetry of Sharlot Hall one, who examines it carefully, will find some of the very finest of America. Her poems have received wide acclaim; been included in many anthologies and collections; arranged and given musical settings; published in outstanding American and British journals; and cherished by those who love the West. Notable for anthological use are “Two Bits,” “The Trail of Death,” “The Range Rider,” and “A Saddle Song” which were included by Robert Frothingham in his collection “Songs and Horses”; and “Sheep Herding” and “Watch” which were chosen by the same compiler for his volume “Songs of Dogs.” “The Earth Madonna,” “The Race Mother,” and “This Is Life” were given musical settings by Charles Farwell Edson. “Arizona,” the poem which was circulated in Congressional Halls and had a great effect in gaining statehood for her beloved land, has been included in many collections of patriotic poems. Interesting enough, some of her poems appeared first in publication outside America. Noteworthy are, “A Litany For Everyday” which was first published in Dublin and was the favorite of John Burroughs, and “A Ballad of Charlie's Men” which first appeared in Scotland under the auspices of persons interested in the restoration of the Stuarts. However, this recognition is insufficient to fully credit the writings of Miss Hall. The final evaluation comes not from literary critics, but from her loyal Arizona friends who know that she has interpreted, sung, and recorded accurately and beautifully the scenes, persons, incidents, and life of her adopted and cherished land.

Sharlot Hall's poems exemplify the life about her as it is profoundly observed and felt by her spirit so keenly attuned to reality. A fine example of this discernment for the humble, yet significant things in life, is found in her poem “Smell of Rain.” Smell of drouth on every side; Every whirl-wind flings aside Acrid, evil-smelling dust Smell of drouth on every side; Every whirl-wind flings aside Acrid, evil-smelling dust

A RANCH WOMAN'S PRAYER

O Christ, who sought the olive wood When the red, Orient sun dropped low. And in the dusk of friendly trees Found strength and comfort long ago.

Here in my desert land afar, When night comes down and work is done, I seek my drouth-dwarfed cedar trees As weary souls sought Lebanon.

The breeze among the sun-dried twigs Makes such low, soothing murmur yet, As crooned the wind among the leaves Upon the slope of Olivet.

Released once more from sun and heat, Across the mesas dim and cool, I hear the cattle come to drink From out the shallow, earth-rimmed pool.

They sigh in grateful, dumb content That long-day thirst is healed at lastAnd through the water splashed with hoofs It seems a healing angel passed.

O Christ, heal thou my spirit's thirst; Thy courage and thy strength impart; Through days and nights of solitude Companion thou a lonely heart.

Like some burning mold or must Wind across the garden brings Scent of blistered, dying things. Deep corral dust trampled fine Stings the lips like bitter wine. Warping boards ooze drops of pitch Scented with a memory rich Of cool forests far away. In the sun-baked fields the hay Yields a piteous, panting breath As it slowly burns to death. Roses in the ranch house yard Turn to mummies dry and hard. Out of dusk and out of dawn Every fragrance is withdrawn. Hot, hot winds, and clear, hot sky Burn the throat and sear the eye. Then, at last, a cool dawn wind Pitying and deeply kind, Brings a far-off scent of rain. Ah, the sick earth lives again! Herds that straggle dusty-pale Down the deep-worn water trail, Lift their sunken eyes with hope To the distant mountain slope. Lean work horses shy and snort In an awkward, eager sport; And the ranch dogs baying run Out to meet the rising sun. In the yard a woman stands, Touching with bewildered hands Wan buds trying to unclose On a parched and dying rose.

Due, especially, to this interpretative awareness of life about her it is exceedingly important to gather the facts about her life. Sharlot Hall was born in Kansas and lived in Lincoln and Barber Counties, for the first twelve years of her life. Then in November of 1881 her family started by wagon train over the old Santa Fe Trail for Arizona. The winters in Kansas were cold and, too, Sharlot's mother had brothers in Arizona who had journeyed down from the mining camps of Colorado soon after Arizona became an organized territory. They wrote letters wanting their sister and her husband, with whom they had shared trails in the West, to join them in Arizona. So to this new land they were migrating. They were on the trail for months and arrived in the Territory early in 1882. With them they brought young thoroughbreds to establish a herd in the new land. Upon arriva the Halls established their home on a ranch on Lower Lynx Creek about twenty miles from Prescott. The ranch was later known as the Orchard Ranch, and the horses and cattle carried the wine glass brand, which was a California brand that Sharlot's father bought and registered in Arizona territory. Since 1882 Sharlot Hall's life has centered around that ranch and the neighboring city of Prescott. While she has traveled and gone away at times she has always known that home was in the Yavapai hills and that it could not be any other place. How fitting today to find her living in the small apartment adjacent to the Museum in the immediate proximity of the First Governor's Mansion. Sharlot and her brother attended the little country school near the present site of Dewey, Arizona. The school was four miles from the ranch. Most of the time they rode their horses to school, but there were many days when, as Miss Hall says, "Mother being very persistent about schooling would get us up early in the morning, give us our lunch, and send us off to walk the four miles to school." Of these school days Miss Hall recalls that she spent much of the time composing verse rather than studying the regular assignments of the three R's. She tells, smiling, of what one can easily decide is a very cherished memory of her childhood. The Thomases were the Hall's first neighbors and lived about one and one half miles from them. Mrs. Thomas was a very good cook and made especially delectable pies. But the best pies that Mrs. Thomas ever baked, according to Miss Hall, were those which Mr. Thomas would slip out from the kitchen to give the children large "quarter" cuts and then hurry them on their homeward way from school before Aunt Nell would disher husband, with whom they had shared trails in the West, to join them in Arizona. So to this new land they were migrating. They were on the trail for months and arrived in the Territory early in 1882. With them they brought young thoroughbreds to establish a herd in the new land. Upon arriva the Halls established their home on a ranch on Lower Lynx Creek about twenty miles from Prescott. The ranch was later known as the Orchard Ranch, and the horses and cattle carried the wine glass brand, which was a California brand that Sharlot's father bought and registered in Arizona territory. Since 1882 Sharlot Hall's life has centered around that ranch and the neighboring city of Prescott. While she has traveled and gone away at times she has always known that home was in the Yavapai hills and that it could not be any other place. How fitting today to find her living in the small apartment adjacent to the Museum in the immediate proximity of the First Governor's Mansion. Sharlot and her brother attended the little country school near the present site of Dewey, Arizona. The school was four miles from the ranch. Most of the time they rode their horses to school, but there were many days when, as Miss Hall says, "Mother being very persistent about schooling would get us up early in the morning, give us our lunch, and send us off to walk the four miles to school." Of these school days Miss Hall recalls that she spent much of the time composing verse rather than studying the regular assignments of the three R's. She tells, smiling, of what one can easily decide is a very cherished memory of her childhood. The Thomases were the Hall's first neighbors and lived about one and one half miles from them. Mrs. Thomas was a very good cook and made especially delectable pies. But the best pies that Mrs. Thomas ever baked, according to Miss Hall, were those which Mr. Thomas would slip out from the kitchen to give the children large "quarter" cuts and then hurry them on their homeward way from school before Aunt Nell would discover the pie was missing. It has been from the lives of these people and their land that Sharlot Hall has panned the gold of her poetry, and her poem "The End of the Trail," written as she nursed Uncle Dick Thomas through his last sickness, eloquently portrays her feelings and her thoughts.

Sunset and the end of the Trail! Here the last faint footsteps fail And I go on alone Into the untracked ways; I who in other days Blazed many a road straight up To the peaks that touch the sunBut now is the climbing done.

No more to my feet the trail; No more to my hand the rein; No more Ah! never again The sun and the wind, and free! The far stars over me! As the Wilderness called I went; Now deep and solemn and low A Mightier calls and I go.

Nor guide nor compass nor sign; Face out, to the uttermost dark; And the wind in the strong boughsHark!

Paean and dirge for a king! Life, I have loved you well; Forget the rest when you tellThis soul did not falter nor quailNor shrink from the End of the Trail.

After completing the grades in the little school, Sharlot came into Prescott and lived in a private home to attend another term of school. This year, coupled with a later experience in Los Angeles where she attended a school of elocution taught by a Mrs. Grigg, completed her formal education. Those months in Prescott brought an experience of which she speaks often. It was during the time when Fremont was Governor of the Territory and Mrs. Fremont made a practice of gathering a group of the children together to tell and read them stories under the great Ponderosa Pine on thegrounds of what is now the Washington School. Other than this, Sharlot Hall has educated herself by home reading and study, by keen observation, by travel, and with unusual as-sociations.

The mother of Sharlot Hall was of New England lineage and as such she brought to the new home with her a great faith, a cour-ageous heart, a persistent spirit, a willingness and ability for work, and great aspirations for Sharlot. Miss Hall says, "I wrote mainly to please mother, she always wanted me to write."

Her mother is thus commemorated in the Dedication of the second edition of Cactus and Pine.

To the mother who bore my body; To the land that mothered my soul; To the Ultimate Guide who led me Scarred through the battle, but whole; Mother, and Land, and The Vision; Stern trails where my feet were set; Take this from the price I owe YeWhose life is less than the Debt.

On the trip across the plains in 1881 Sharlot Hall as a twelve-year-old girl was doing a rider's job. Her father had bought her a side-saddle to have for the journey though always before she had ridden bare-back. One day as she was riding her pony, some of the horses from the herd had wandered away and she was going to get them back when the wind blew an old gunny sack which scared the little pony causing it to throw her and injure her right hip. This injury was later to cause her to endure a year when she could not walk. During this year two poems were published and paid for. One appeared in the Farm and Fireside, a leading farm paper of the period, and the other in the Great Divide, a fine western magazine published by the Rocky Mountain News.

The Great Divide poem is copied here from an old scrap-book and was called THE ANTELOPE HUNT Bring out old Logan, the hunting horse; Cinch Bonnie's saddle tight: Have a care to your knife and cartridge beltSee that your rifle's primed just right. Call Watch, the bloodhound, and off we go: Follow that canyon-just over the slope Where the grass takes on a deeper green Is feeding a band of antelope. Look out for the wind-they will scent you, lad; Those dumb, wild creatures are quick to know When man, their enemy dread, is nighNow off of your horse and follow me slow. Down, lad! Creep soft and sly as a snakeIf they see so much as your lifted hand They are off and away to the hills again'Tis a wise old leader guides this band. Lay low and watch from this clump of grass; See how he lifts his proud old head, And sniffs the air, then turns again To circle his band with restless tread. He watches them crop the grasses sweet; He watches the fawns in their merry playHist lad! You showed him the crown of your hatSee how he snorts as they dash away. Don't raise your rifle don't fire a shotTo kill for sport is a cruel thing: Let them go unharmed to the hills tonightYou can gain no good through their suffering.

(This poem, by the way, was of Lonesome

JANUARY, 1943

However, it must be understood that these

were not the very first of her poetic compo-

sitions.

During these years she was also reading much and, of course, was a reader of the grand magazine of the day, "Youth's Companion" to which she had submitted poems. One of the leading contributors to that publication was Charles F. Lummis. The time was to come when Lummis was to make a trip through the West and to report his experiences under the title " A Tramp Across the Continent" for the Companion. Sharlot Hall had already established a literary contact with Lummis and

IN THE BRACKEN

Scent of the pine on the hilltops, Rush of the mountain breeze, And long, deep slopes of bracken fern Like sun-lit, emerald seas. Gray old rocks where lizards hide And chattering chipmunks play; Where the brown quail leads her timorous breed Through the fronds that bend and sway. Home of the doe and her spotted fawnsShyest of the woodland thingsHaunt of the hawks that dip and dive On circling, fearless wings. The skies bend down with a deeper blue Where the white clouds drift and hover; And the tall peaks drowse in the golden haze That dapples their forest cover. The needles whisper an endless song And the brown cones bend and nod; "O rest, O rest, with the bracken and pine In the strong green hills of God."

When he became editor of a real estate magazine in California called "Land of Sunshine," she submitted verse to him that was accepted and published. Upon the occasion of a visit to the Coast Miss Hall visited the Lummis family. This led in turn to an intermittent associate editorship which took her away from the ranch to California to edit the magazine when Lum-mis was away. His absences were numerous due to his close personal friendship with Teddy Roosevelt, who called him East frequently. During this time Miss Hall did free lance writing at the ranch but going to California at intervals for two or three months at a time to carry editorial responsibilities. The time came when Lummis became owner-editor-publisher of the magazine and changed the name to "Out West" Magazine. An un-usual incident in this connection is directly responsible for what this writer believes to be one of the very best of Sharlot Hall's poems, "The West." The incident as related by the poetess herself is like this.

"In the autumn of that year (1901), Charles F. Lummis, then editor of a magazine called 'The Land of Sunshine, published in Los Angeles, California, had decided to enlarge the periodical and to change the name to 'Out West.' He had asked both Edwin Mark-ham and Joaquin Miller for a poem to be used on the first page of the first issue under the new name. Neither responded and at the last moment Mr. Lummis told me that I would have to furnish the poem needed before I left for Arizona. (She was just then preparing to return to the ranch after one of her stays in California).

The poem was printed on heavy cardboard and sent to every periodical of importance in the United States, with an announcement of the change in the magazine. "The 'broadside, which was attractively printed on delicately tinted paper, was copied in many periodicals." The poem and the illustration which accompanied it on the "broad-side" which was a reproduction of a painting by Maynard Dixon are again reproduced with this article. The poem was later set to music for many voices by Willard Patton and given under his direction at the Festival of Western Songs in Minnesota. Portions of it have been used by many writers and it has been included in various collections of verse. It is a great tribute to a great part of the world.

Prior to and during these years of semi-editorship Sharlot Hall took a man's place on the ranch and with her mother carried on the work of gardening, dairying, butter making, and many other duties. Her father had been injured in a fire which had impaired the use of his feet and legs to a considerable degree, though not sufficiently to keep him from doing "horse work" and many other useful tasks around the ranch. During these years the women would get up early and drive to Prescott making the twenty miles with a team and buckboard in two and one half hours. Then trading produce for needed supplies at the old B. B. Store they would journey back home. For ten years Miss Hall commuted between the old Orchard Ranch in Yavapai County and the Coast, shuttling back and forth from editor's desk to household-ranch duties. This relationship with the "Out West" magazine was terminated when Miss Hall became Territorial Historian by appointment of Gov-ernor Richard Sloan, Arizona's last Territor-ial Governor. She held the office from 1909 to 1912 when she resigned to return to the ranch because of the illness of her mother. Here she remained until 1929, after the death

Th Song of the Colorado

From the heart of the mighty mountains strong-souled for my fate I came, My far-drawn track to a nameless sea through a land without a name; And the earth rose up to hold me, to bid me linger and stay; And the brawn and bone of my mother's race were set to bar my way.

Yet I stayed not, I could not linger; my soul was tense to the call The wet winds sing when the long waves leap and beat on the far sea wall. I stayed not, I could not linger; patient, resistless, alone, I hewed the trail of my destiny deep in the hindering stone.

How narrow that first dim pathway-yet deepening hour by hour! Years, ages, eons, spent and forgot, while I gathered me might and power To answer the call that led me, to carve my road to the sea, Till my flood swept out with that greater tide, as tireless and tameless and free.

From the far, wild land that bore me I drew my blood as wildI, born of the glacier's glory, born of the uplands piled Like stairs to the door of Heaven, that the Maker of All might go Down from His place with honor, to look on the world and know That the sun and the wind and the waters, and the white ice cold and still, Were moving aright in the plan He had made, shaping His wish and will. When the spirit of worship was on me, turning alone, apart, I stayed and carved me temples deep in the mountain's heart.

Wide-domed and vast and silent, meet for the God I knew, With shrines that were shadowed and solemn and altars of richest hue; And out of my ceaseless striving I wrought a victor's hymn, Flung up to the stars in greetings from my far track deep and dim.

For the earth was put behind me; I reckoned no more with them That come or go at her bidding and cling to her garment's hem. Apart in my rock-hewn pathway, where the great cliffs shut me in, The storm-swept clouds were my brethren and the stars were my kind and kin.

Tireless, alone, unstaying, I went as one who goes On some high and strong adventure that only his own heart knows. Tireless, alone, unstaying, I went in my chosen roadI trafficked with no man's burden-I bent me to no man's load.

On my tawny, sinuous shoulders no salt-gray ships swung in; I washed no feet of cities, like a slave whipped out and in; My will was the law of my moving in the land that my strife had madeAs a man in the house he has builded, master and unafraid.

O ye that would hedge and bind me-remembering whence I cameI, that was, and was mighty, ere your race had breath or name! Play with your dreams in the sunshine delve and toil and plot-- Yet I keep the way of my will to the sea when ye and your race are not!

Of both her mother and father, when she sold the Orchard Ranch and obtained the property in Prescott known as the First Governor's Mansion. She then made trips East to visit the best of the privately conducted museums there, especially in New England, and then returned to begin the establishment of the museum, which is a great tribute to Arizona's Pioneers.

Cactus and Pine, the only volume of Sharlot Hall's collected verse, was first published by Sherman French Co., of Boston in 1910. This edition was soon exhausted. In 1924 Arizona Club Women under the leadership of Mrs. Dwight B. Heard of Phoenix were responsible for the publishing of a second and enlarged edition of Cactus and Pine. The available copies of this edition are to be classed as collector's items. In speaking of the title for the volume Miss Hall has said, "The very name, which I do not particularly like, was chosen for the first hasty edition because it seemed to represent all parts of Arizona." Whether Miss Hall likes the title or not it does represent all of Arizona as do the poems and there is to me something of the same thought about it that Erna Ferguson had when she spoke of the subject in her volume Our Southwest, "Cactus and Pine, a good title for her. Thorny cactus makes marvelous beauty out of its struggle for existence, and pines are invincibly straight and true." (1) has said, "The very name, which I do not particularly like, was chosen for the first hasty edition because it seemed to represent all parts of Arizona." Whether Miss Hall likes the title or not it does represent all of Arizona as do the poems and there is to me something of the same thought about it that Erna Ferguson had when she spoke of the subject in her volume Our Southwest, "Cactus and Pine, a good title for her. Thorny cactus makes marvelous beauty out of its struggle for existence, and pines are invincibly straight and true." (1) In the introduction to this second edition Miss Hall made a promise to publish another volume under the title Poems Of A Ranch Woman, but the volume has not appeared though she has many unpublished poems of delightful quality, two, "The Smell of Rain" and" A Ranch Woman's Prayer" are herewith printed for the first time. The world will be less rich if this volume is not published, because these later poems have come out of the rich garnering of the fruitful years of matured autumnal richness.

Unless rich if this volume is not published, because these later poems have come out of the rich garnering of the fruitful years of matured autumnal richness.

Sharlot Hall is a historian, a gatherer, recorder, and interpreter of fact of people and times. She is an analyist of human nature and behavior, and an accurate reporter of events. She is a philosopher of merit and has insights into lives of persons, nations, and eras. She is gentle and forthright in her attitude and has great reverence for truth. She would not even take poetic license with a fact or happening. She has a very excellent outlook upon all life and an humble spirit regarding her own accomplishments. In speaking about her writing she said to this chronicler, "We must not think of the things we do, or produce as too much our own. We are all like musical instruments, good or bad. We all give out something as the Creator plays upon our talents." Sharlot Hall has a very great feeling and philosophy about what ecclesiastics refer to as the stewardship of life. This fine woman is deeply spiritual though not formally religious. Her "Litany of Life" glimpses this as do so many of her other poems.

However, her personal philosophy of life is probably better stated in her poem, "A Creed" which begins, "Let others frame their creeds -mine is to work"; though she told me laughingly, "I hope it will not shock you, but of all my poems I think I like best a little one you may not have even noticed, called, 'Cash In." In this poem one senses a fatalism, possibly a slight cynicism, but in it a sportsman-like determination to enjoy life and to drink of the West of which she is so much a part.

O life is a game of poker And I've played it straight to the end; But the last chip's down on the table And I'm done with the game, my friend.

The fire in my blood it flickers Like a guttering candle light, When the tallow beads in greasy tears And the wind whips in from the night.

The deck was stacked by the Dealer. Before he would let me in; The cards were marked, and I knew itThere was never a chance to win.

But I bluffed the game to a finishTill He nodded and called my handPalms empty and crossed but the lips still smileAnd the Dealer will understand.

Her accuracy of historic fact in poetry is well illustrated by her famous poem "Two Bits." There is no poetic tampering with or altering of fact. The fact is the romance of the ballad And of romance there is much. In her explanatory remarks accompanying the poem she tells the sources of her data and the actual historic facts which have been authenticated. Withal she has written one of the greatest ballads about a horse that has ever appeared in print, little wonder that Frothingham included it in "Songs of Horses."

Where the shimmering sands of the desert beat In waves to the foot-hills' rugged line, And cat-claw and cactus and brown mesquite Elbow 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 logs And forty troopers the army strong.

At the very gates when darkness fell, Prowling Mohave and Yavapai Signalled with shrill coyote yell, Or mocked the night owl's piercing cry; Till once when the guard turned shuddering For 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 volunteer To 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 set And 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 know The 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-struck From steel-shod hoofs on the treacherous flint-Ears strain, eyes wait, in rocks above For the faintest whisper, the farthest glint; But shod with silence and robed with nightThey pass untracked, and mile by mile The hills divide for the flying feet, And the stars lean low to guide the while.

Never a plumed quail hid her nest With 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 hillsBut 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 horse Leaped out with his broad breast torn and yet.

Ping! Thud! On his neck the rider swayed;Ten thousand deaths if he reeled and fell!

Behind, exultant, the painted horde Poured down like a skirmish line from Hell.

Not Yet! Not Yet! Those ringing hoofs Have scarred their triumph on many a course; on-And the desperate, blood-trailed chase swept Apache sinews 'gainst wounded horse.

And the desperate, blood-trailed chase swept Apache sinews 'gainst wounded horse.

Hour crowding hour till the yells died back, Till the pat of moccasined feet was gone; And dumb to heeding of foe or fear The 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 rang And a faint 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.

(Continued on Page Thirty-five)