"Hullo, Jerry is gone," he said to himself. "Jerry! Jerry! Where are you?" he called.
No sound came back in answer, nor did the animal put in an appearance. Staggering to his feet, Dale walked a short distance up and down the watercourse. It was useless; the horse could not be found.
With a sinking heart the young lumberman was retracing his steps to the ford when he saw a form on horseback advancing along the trail. As the person came closer he recognized Owen Webb.
"Owen!"
"Why, Dale, is that you?"
"Have you seen anything of my horse?"
"Your horse? No. Didn't you ride him back?"
"I rode him as far as here. Then somebody struck me and knocked me into the brook, and now the horse is gone," went on Dale.
He told the particulars of the occurrence so far as they were clear to him. Owen Webb was of a sympathetic nature, and as he listened his face grew clouded.
"It must have been Ducrot, Dale. It's just like the cowardly sneak. Didn't you see him at all?"