

                             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.


[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the July 19, 1930 issue
of _Western Story_ magazine.]
