Old Slowpoke

By Howard E. Morgan
Author of “Breed of the Wolf,” etc.

Although his dogs had picked up and followed a dozen false trails since morning, Rall Hollidge’s weary body tensed and he broke into a shuffling run as the bell-like baying of Ginger, the leader of the pack, announced the potential discovery of another lion. Business had been poor of late. Lion pelts brought only forty dollars apiece. At an average of one lion a week, this scarcely sufficed to feed Hollidge’s dogs. It was time, he knew, to look for new hunting grounds; but Hollidge disliked to leave the Yargod Hills. The reason for this reluctance was, of course, Jane Saunders.

It was, as usual, Old Slowpoke who told Hollidge that a fresh trail actually had been struck. When on a hot trail, there was a different tone in the old dog’s baying. Hollidge grinned. Old ’Poke, following some distance behind the rest of the pack, as always, was moving laboriously over the rocks toward a brush-littered coulee at the head of the valley.

Hollidge saw the lion then. Far in advance of the pack the tawny beast slipped into the entrance to a wooden draw and disappeared.

Half an hour later, the dogs had treed their quarry. As Hollidge cut across the valley toward the spot where the pack was shrilly announcing its victory, he espied Old Slowpoke, painstakingly following the lion’s trail, apparently oblivious of the fact that the game had already been treed by his companions two miles away on the opposite side of the valley.

Hollidge merely grinned good-naturedly. He never became angry at any of his dogs, least of all at Old ’Poke. Although the fat, hybrid hound ate twice as much as any other of the dogs, and as a hunter was practically useless, Hollidge thought more of him than he did of all the rest of the pack put together. There was a bond of sympathetic understanding between him and the dog. Hollidge was big, slow-moving, ponderous, and deliberation itself in thought and action. It was true of both, however, that they usually got what they set out to get. This often worked out in a somewhat ludicrous manner where the dog was concerned. More often than not, Old ’Poke would reach the end of the trail, which he so carefully and laboriously followed, long after the quarry had been brought to earth and the hunt was over.

Hollidge leisurely approached the treed lion, brought it down with a single well-placed shot and was taking the pelt when Lew Rines appeared.

Rall Hollidge did not like Rines, primarily, of course, because Rines was his rival for the hand of Jane Saunders. The two men were as different as it was possible for two men to be. Rall Hollidge was huge, loose-limbed, slow-moving mentally and physically, and inclined to carelessness in dress; Lew Rines was slim, alert, and invariably dressed in the height of local fashion. So far, the rivalry between them for the hand of Jane Saunders, heiress of the Double S Ranch, had not been definitely settled. It was well known that Rines was the favorite of Joel Saunders, Jane’s father. On the other hand, it was apparent that Jane had very little use for Lew Rines. Just where Rall Hollidge stood in her regard was known only to the young lady herself.

“Well, how’s the mighty hunter today?” Rines greeted, in his usual bantering manner.

Hollidge did not reply. He was looking across the valley toward the spot where Old Slowpoke, nosing his ponderous way among the boulders, was drawing near. Hollidge had promised to be at the Double S Ranch at six o’clock for supper. He would not go on without Old ’Poke. It was already nearly six. If the dog did not hurry, he would be late. Jane was always displeased when he was late. Rines followed the big man’s gaze.

“Old Slowpoke,” he muttered, grinning. “I can’t understand, Rall, why you keep that darned fool dog. Why, he’s absolutely useless to you! I’ll bet he’s never treed a lion since you’ve had him.”

Rall Hollidge shrugged. “He’s a good dog,” he protested mildly.

Rines chuckled. “I’ve got a riddle for you, Rall,” he said.

Hollidge displayed no interest whatsoever. Rines was forever telling riddles and jokes, most of which were beyond Hollidge’s stolid comprehension.

Rines pointed toward a little hill which had extended to the top of a bald-faced ridge. “Why is that hill like a lazy dog?” he asked.

Hollidge shrugged. “Search me,” he muttered disinterestedly.

“Give up?” Rines pursued.

Rall Hollidge nodded. “Sure,” he said; “I give up.”

“Because it’s a slope up,” Rines answered. He laughed at the evident lack of comprehension in Hollidge’s face. “Don’t strain yourself,” he admonished, “it’ll come to you by and by. It’s got somethin’ to do with Old Slowpoke. Maybe that’ll help you figure it out.”

Rines sat on a fallen log, lit a cigarette, and watched his companion skinning the lion. Some ten minutes later, Hollidge began to laugh.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he chortled. “Slope up. A slow pup. Pretty good at that, Lew. Ha-ha-ha!”

Lew Rines shook his head sadly and rose. “You’re gettin’ worse instead of better, Rall,” he said. He flung his cigarette away. “Well, so long,” he grinned. “I’ve got a date at six o’clock.”

The smile left Hollidge’s face when he saw that Rines was heading toward the Double S Ranch. He was, for a moment, tempted to call his dogs and go on with Rines; but a glance into the valley showed him Old Slowpoke nearly a mile away. He would not go without Old ’Poke. That was all there was to it.

It was after seven o’clock when Rall Hollidge reached the Double S Ranch. Joel Saunders and Rines had finished supper. Jane had waited for him. He was vastly relieved to find that she was not angry. She was distressed, though. He tried, in his clumsy way, to find out what was wrong; but she merely shook her head in response to his questioning. There were red rings around her eyes, he noticed, as though she had been crying. They finished supper in silence.

It was not until he started outside to join Saunders and Rines that she gave him an indication of what the trouble might be. “Dad is going to talk to you, Rall,” she whispered. “Promise me you won’t get mad. Everything will turn out all right.”

Hollidge nodded. “I won’t get mad,” he promised.

He was still wondering what she had meant, when Joel Saunders, his pale-blue eyes gleaming purposefully, stamped across the porch. Hollidge heard the screen door open and shut behind him, and Jane stood at his side.

“Hollidge,” the old ranchman began, “I’ve got somethin’ right important to say to you. Somethin’ personal. Go into the house, Jane!”

But Jane Saunders did not move. Her lips were set in a thin line and her eyes were blurred with tears. She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I won’t go. I know what you’re going to say, and——”

Joel Saunders’ eyes flashed. He took a step forward then stopped.

“All right,” he finally said, “listen in if you want to.” He faced Rall Hollidge then. “You an’ Jane are gettin’ too thick to suit me,” he snapped. “That’s what I want to talk to you about, Hollidge. I don’t aim on havin’ you for a son-in-law. Is that clear?”

As usual, Rall Hollidge could find nothing to say. He merely shuffled uneasily.

“I’m gettin’ along in years,” the ranchman went on quickly. “The Double S is a prosperous, goin’ concern. I’ve got quite a wad o’ cash money laid by. All Jane knows is ranchin’. She likes it. I want her to keep the Double S Ranch goin’. She’s gotta have a man what is a man; one who knows ranchin’, an’ who can keep things movin’. You ain’t that man, Hollidge. As a matter o’ fact, I’m gettin’ plumb sick o’ the sight of you an’ them houn’s o’ yourn. I don’t want you hangin’ aroun’ here no more.”

After this bitter ultimatum, the old man turned on his heel. But Jane Saunders caught her father by an arm, and clung to him tightly. She was not crying now. “You had no right to say that, father,” she protested. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know Rall Hollidge. You——”

Joel Saunders swung angrily, about, and pushed his daughter gently but firmly away. “All right,” he said, through set teeth; “if that’s the way you feel about it, young lady, you can take your choice—me, or him! I won’t have him and his mangy hounds hangin’ aroun’ this ranch. If you prefer the company of him and his dogs to me, why——”

The old man shrugged expressively and turned away. Jane caught his arm again, but this time he did not stop. She followed him into the house. Hollidge could hear them arguing. Lew Rines rose, and, grinning, sauntered toward the corral.

Rall Hollidge, more upset than he had ever been in all his easy-going existence, sat on a flat rock and watched miserably a fleecy white cloud drift before the moon. Old ’Poke came and lay between his master’s feet, looked up into the man’s face and whined lugubriously.

Rall Hollidge had no idea how long he sat there, staring. Suddenly, a light flared in Jane’s bedroom window. Hollidge could see her moving about.

The big man came slowly to his feet again. She was going to bed. This meant that she had decided to stay with her father. He shrugged despondently, and without a backward glance, called softly to his dogs and plodded away.

Rall Hollidge and his dogs were gone when Jane Saunders appeared a few moments later. She was fully dressed and carried a suit case. Her cheeks were still wet, but she was no longer crying. She had decided. Lew Rines had just asked her, for the hundredth time, to marry him. She had told Rines and she had told her father that she intended marrying—Rall Hollidge.

She did not immediately realize that Hollidge was gone. A few moments before, she had seen him from her window surrounded by his dogs. But he was gone. Was it possible that he did not want her? Had his faith in her been so slight that he had gone without even waiting to learn her answer to her father’s ultimatum? Evidently, for he was gone!

A dry sob choked the girl’s throat. Her shoulders dropped dejectedly. What was she to do? She would not go back to her father. And if Rall did not want her, she could not go to him. But she wanted to go to Rall! Perhaps he had not understood. With feet that dragged ever so slightly, she turned toward the hill road leading to Hollidge’s cabin.

But she did not go far. At a bend in the road she slumped on a grassy bank, rested her head in hands, and cried softly. Suddenly a hoarse yell sounded from the direction of the ranch house. Then, a roaring report, muffled by the walls, struck harshly upon the moonlit stillness. Jane sprang to her feet. Had Rall come back? Were they fighting—he and her father? She broke into a mad run.

When still some distance from the house, she heard the front door slam; a dark form materialized out of the shadows, and, running swiftly, dashed across the open before the house. Even before Jane recognized the running man she saw that he carried a nickel-plated oblong box beneath his arm. The box was Joel Saunders’ bank, and in it were several thousand dollars in paper money. Robbery! And her father——

The running man turned suddenly, a gun in his right hand. Jane saw the flash. Then, something struck her left shoulder. She spun about, stumbled, and fell heavily, landing with force on her head and the injured shoulder.

Half stunned by the crashing force of the six-gun slug which had torn an ugly groove through her upper arm, Jane crawled on hands and knees toward the ranch house. Not until she reached the porch did she get a hold of herself. She was still dizzy and sick. Realizing that she had already lost much blood, she attempted to bind the wound. But the injury was in an awkward spot and her efforts were futile. She dreaded to enter the house. Somehow or other, she knew just what she would find there.

As she had expected, Joel Saunders was dead. He lay sprawled sidewise, in a chair in his office. The thief’s bullet had pierced his heart.

Although steeled to find exactly this, Jane was for the moment overcome by sheer horror. And Lew Rines had done this thing. Yes, she had positively recognized him. Lew Rines, who had a hundred times proposed marriage to her! Lew Rines, her father’s choice! She had always suspected that Rines had been more interested in her father’s money than in her. But even in her wildest dislike of Lew Rines, she had never thought him capable of this!

Jane never knew how she got there, but some time later she found herself on the hill road leading to Rall Hollidge’s cabin. Off to her right, the rasping strains of a fiddle came from the Double S bunkhouse. There was the sound, too, of heavy feet pounding in noisy rhythm with the music. The two shots evidently had not been heard by the men in the bunkhouse.

A stooped, bow-legged figure came toward her out of the darkness, a man with a long white beard. It was “Dad” Fothergill, who had been the Double S cook for a quarter of a century.

“Howdy, Jane!” the old man exclaimed.

Jane did not return the friendly greeting. In fact, she hardly looked at Fothergill.

“Father is dead,” she said, in a dull voice. “Murdered! Robbed! Lew Rines did it. Tell—the boys.”

She turned and went on. Dad Fothergill shouted questions. But she did not answer. She wanted Rall Hollidge. She did not want to talk to anybody else. Rall was so big, so calm, so quietly confident. He would comfort her; he would do something. Rall and his dogs would run the killer down. They would surely——

The girl’s thoughts degenerated into a jumble of senseless things, half fancy, half real. She was very weak, and stumbled as she walked. She reached the Hollidge cabin at last. But there were no welcoming yelps from the dogs. The cabin was in darkness. Rall Hollidge was gone!

Like one in a dream, the distraught girl turned toward the black hills in the distance.

When Hollidge left the Double S ranch house he had confidently intended immediately leaving the Yargod Hills behind him. Those hills had long since been hunted out. With Jane lost to him, there was no longer any reason for his staying. It was not until he had left his cabin far behind him that the real hurt began to make itself felt. True to his nature, Rall Hollidge was slow to anger, slow to hate, slow to love. Once these primary emotions were aroused, however, they went deeper than with the ordinary individual. Hollidge had loved Jane with all his heart and soul. He still loved her, as a matter of fact, and always would. He bore her no ill will because she had decided to stay with her father. But, the hurt was there, nevertheless; and, as time passed, that hurt bit deeper and deeper until it seemed as though steel bands were locked about his heart, crushing out his life.

For the most of the night the miserable man tramped aimlessly on into the hills. The dogs, sensing the change in their master, circled and left him. Only Old ’Poke, faithful as always, followed close at his heels.

When the red sun peeped up over the eastern horizon, Rall Hollidge was still walking. He seemed like a man in a daze. All during the day he plodded on, without thought or purpose. He did not eat. The thought of food did not even occur to him. At night he sank exhausted upon a grassy bank and slept like one dead. Old Slowpoke lay close at his man’s side. Later, the other dogs appeared, and whining querulously, circled around the still figures.

It was mid-afternoon of the next day when Sheriff Ed Putnam and his posse came upon Rall Hollidge. The big man peered dully at the familiar faces. He recognized Putnam, Lew Rines, and several others. For no reason evident to him at the moment, his bloodshot eyes returned again and again to Lew Rines. Were Rines’ wrists handcuffed? It did not seem possible. But, yes, they were.

“You sure led us a merry chase, Rall,” the sheriff said.

Hollidge scowled and shook his head. Chase? What did they mean? He had not been running. What was wrong? What did they want with him? The posse, he discovered, was mostly made up of Double S men. They all looked haggard and tired. And—Lew Rines—a prisoner——

Hollidge’s confused mind suggested many questions; but, as usual, words refused to come.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

“Jane Saunders—is gone,” the sheriff answered. “We thought maybe you had seen her?”

Hollidge grasped this bit of startling information quickly. “Gone!” he repeated. “Where?”

Putnam shrugged. “That’s what we’ve got to find out, and that mighty soon,” the old officer answered. “She was hurt. She started out looking for you, and——”

“Who hurt her?” Hollidge interrupted quickly. His slumping shoulders had straightened; his blue eyes were alert.

Putnam pointed toward Lew Rines. “Rines killed and robbed Joel Saunders early last night; and he must have shot the girl, too. All the way to your cabin her trail was marked with blood. She fell several times, indicating that she was probably hurt bad. We lost her trail just beyond your place. We’ve been searching all night. Happened to think of you and your dogs. Figured you might be able to help us. We——”

But, even as the sheriff talked, Rall Hollidge had started away. Calling to the dogs, he started at a run straight down the mountainside, where the horsemen were unable to follow. As he struck into the valley, the pack came from a dozen directions and baying noisily fell in behind him. Far in the rear waddled Old ’Poke, his big feet carrying him clumsily over the ground.

By the time the sheriff and his men reached the valley, Hollidge had already followed Jane Saunders’ trail far beyond the point where they had lost it that morning. Now, with his dogs gathered around him, he was pointing out the imprint of a small boot heel in the moss. One after another, the intelligent animals sniffed noisily at the mark. It was some time before the man could convince them that they should follow the owner of that boot. It was Ginger who understood first. Baying his instructions to the rest of the pack, the big cinnamon-colored hound started away in full cry.

Long after the rest of the dogs had gone, Slowpoke lumbered up. Whining softly, the dog nuzzled the boot mark. He did not need to be told what to do. Before the dog started away, Hollidge knelt and threw an arm about the animal’s neck. As far as the posse could hear, he did not speak. When they fell in behind the dogs, it was noticed that Hollidge kept pace with Old Slowpoke.

Superficially, the task of locating Jane Saunders appeared impossible. The spot where her trail had disappeared was a massive rock pile, twenty miles square and in spots nearly a mile high. That mighty pile of rocks contained hundreds of blind canyons, great fissures cleft out of solid stone, black and seemingly bottomless. There was practically no vegetation. It had rained the night before and the hot sun had quickly absorbed the moisture, removing at the same time most of the scent that might be left.

A dozen times during the next two hours the pack silently admitted failure. Each time, it was Old ’Poke, nosing laboriously over the rocks, who picked up the trail and once again sent the dogs away in full cry. The old hound never was at a loss for long.

Just as the summer dusk was bathing the hills in purple shadow, Old ’Poke stopped at the entrance to a black canyon, and, turning his sad eyes up to Hollidge, whined lugubriously. Rall Hollidge, breathing hard like one in the last stages of exhaustion, dropped on the ground at the dog’s side.

“No, no, ’Poke,” he almost sobbed; “you haven’t lost it! Don’t give up, ’Poke! She must be near!”

Then, as though imbued by some of the man’s frantic anxiety, the dog began circling swiftly. The rest of the pack, half a mile away, were again at a loss. Hollidge, his eyes blurred with the intensity of his staring, watched Old Slowpoke. The dog was making circles fifty feet in diameter now. Suddenly he barked sharply. He had squeezed between two boulders at the bottom of the rocky slope. Hollidge plunged headlong down the almost perpendicular wall.

They found her there, wedged in that narrow cleft between the two boulders. She had apparently fallen over the wall, which accounted for Old ’Poke momentarily losing her trail.

She was unconscious when Hollidge caught her in his arms. At the sound of his voice, however, her eyes opened. She looked up into his face.

“Why didn’t you wait for me, Rall?” she asked softly. Then she saw the posse. The men were talking, shouting, laughing, half mad with relief. “I fell,” she went on. “I don’t see—how you ever—found me——”

“It was ’Poke that did it, honey,” Hollidge said. “If it hadn’t been for him, we maybe never would have done so.”

And Old Slowpoke, as though absorbing some of the exuberant happiness of the men about him, romped about Hollidge and Jane Saunders so strenuously, that his hind feet finally went from under him and he fell in a tail-wagging heap at Hollidge’s feet.

About This Book

This work is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Copyright status in other countries may vary; readers outside the US should verify the status in their own jurisdiction.

Originally published by Street & Smith Publications in Western Story Magazine, July 19, 1930

Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net).