CHAPTER XIX.
AN AWAKENING.
It was a terrible shock to the boy, and for a few moments he seemed dazed as if by a physical blow. He had come into camp weary of body but light and gay of heart, full of triumph, sure of a half-chaffing word of commendation from his friend and comrade. But that friend had met a horrible death. John's heart sank like lead, and for the time the light went out of the sky for him. There was no joy, no sunshine, no future—Jerry was dead!
"Where is he?" John asked of the man who brought him the sad news.
"In camp," was the answer.
John was in haste to go to his friend, yet he dreaded it with all his soul. He forgot his triumph, his pride in his horse, his weariness, in the one thought that filled his mind—"Jerry is dead!"
"So Jerry, great, strong, experienced Jerry, on his big bay went down, and I, neither strong nor wise, am safe and well," John soliloquized.
In a minute or two they entered camp, and John's first question was "Where?"
The cook nodded toward a bed outspread in the shade of a wagon.
Mr. Baker, the ranchman, was there, and as John reached the place he pulled back the canvas covering. The boy never forgot the sight that met his view. Jerry it was, certainly, but almost unrecognizable.