R IX.

JACQUELINE'S MISFORTUNE.

TO one side of Mr. Simpson's big ranch lay a new orchard. The ranch
people in Wyoming were just beginning to discover what wonderful fruit
could be grown in certain portions of their cattle country and Jean and
Jack were dreadfully envious of their neighbor's five acres of pears,
plums, apples and cherries. Their own poor orchard had been set out only
two years before and the trees appeared like a collection of feeble
switches.

"Let's ride through the orchard and fill our pockets with apples before
we start on our way," Harry suggested. The moonlight was so clear and
radiant that the boys could distinguish the color of the few late apples
that still hung on the trees. The road back of the orchard led to a
trail across the prairies, which neither the ranch girls nor Harry knew.
It seemed to travel to the land of nowhere across a shining path of
light.

Jacqueline took the lead, followed by Frank Kent, Jean and Harry. The
ponies had been all day in the corrals and some of the witchery of the
October night had gotten into them as well as their riders. They
galloped swiftly, their shaggy manes shaking and their long tails
arched, and soon left the level lands of their host's ranch far behind.

"I never had such a wonderful ride in my life!" Frank Kent exclaimed.
"How utterly still the night is!"

Jack's hands hardly touched her reins and she laughed joyously. "Oh,
that is because we are out on the prairie and going too swiftly for you
to hear. Over there where we see a line of shadow, I believe we will
find some water and a grove of trees. Then you will hear the noises of
the night, which are part of our Western life."

Jack and Frank slowed down. Jean and Harry were a short distance behind
them. They had ridden to the edge of a ravine, and across the gorge was
a solitary butte or low mountain. On this side the moonlight fell on a
stretch of evergreen forest, whose tall trees rose black between the
splashes of light.

"Listen," Jack whispered softly.

First came the mournful call of the wildcats from the depth of the
ravine, then, near the entrance to the woods, the whimper and squeak of
the owls.

Frank caught a sound which the last few weeks in Wyoming had taught him
to understand, the long melancholy wail of the coyotes, the wolf dogs of
the prairies. But to-night the howl was deeper and more prolonged.

"What was that?" Frank asked quickly.

"Wolves, I suppose," Jack a