from
The San Francisco Bulletin
July 2, 1878
The second day came. It was lovely, bright and charming enough for a young queen's coronation. The programme was splendid, and long before the horses were called to the post in the first race the grounds were absolutely alive with people. They came from all quarters and in every possible way. The delegation of the fair sex was especially strong, and they enjoyed the sport wonderfully. The Greeley Stakes, a dash of three miles for all ages, was the opening race. Of twenty two nominations, Mahistick(not sure of this spelling), McWhirter, Joe Rodes and Red Bluff came to the post. They got a good start when McWhirter darted to the front like a red man's arrow from a well sprung bow. Before he reached the first turn Mahistick joined him, and the pair raced like twin brothers for two miles. There was no advantage in favor of either. As they approached the distance on the second mile, not more than 75 yards from the wire McWhirter faltered. He had been ill of a leg since last fall, but when he faltered it seemed to be from the well front leg, and not the weak one. He lost his stride for the moment, changed feet, regained a neck which he had lost, and passed the stand head and head with his adversary. Fifty yards further and he gave away in the other leg, and Mahistick drew rapidly away from him. Still McWhirter showed no disposition to quit, and the foolish little boy on him made no attempt to force him to do so. With the tendons gone in both front legs he kept moving but gradually like the dying out of the flickering light of an exhausted candle his pace grew more and more difficult, his stride shorter and shorter, until just as he passed the half-mile pole the cannon bones forced their way through the skin and he came near falling. The lad was dislodged from the saddle but held to the poor horse. The crowd disregarded the race and rushed to the noble animal who had made so desperate and remarkable an effort to do his master's will, who had absolutely performed the long talked and written of but never before realized, feat of running his legs off. General Buford, his owner, was sent for. His recovery was utterly impossible. He could only linger in pain, and die at last. To relieve him, and in sheer mercy his master, with a sad heart and tearful eyes, passed sentence upon him, and he was then and there shot. "Twas a sad sight. I saw men, brave men, who had breasted storms of bullets in fearful conflicts, melt to tears, and in the grand stand the ladies wept bitter grief at the death of the horse they had but a few moments before declared to be the handsomest animal they had ever seen. He was a beautiful horse, of perfect symmetry, with action as elastic as a rubber ball; all style, all form, all proportion, except his courage, and that - what it was the crowning act of his life writes it's own history in characters more indelible than time itself. He was buried near the spot, under a beautiful tree. and the people of St Louis declare that above him shall stand a monument, "Sacred to the memory of McWhirter." General Buford was a good soldier but soldiers are seldom philosophers. He is not. He did not recover his usual spirits during the remainder of the meeting; and the whole crowd were gloomy during the day. The sport went on, but that wild enthusiasm of the early morning and previous day, which found relief in wild shouts of animated joy, was hushed. There was a pall over the assembled thousands. They mourned as if the great had gone, the good had departed. "Twas the saddest day I ever witnessed on a race-course. May I never see it's like again.
