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 answered with perfect calmness. "There may be a few of them prowling about. They often come out at night at some distance from the ranches." Jean and Harry cantered up. "Hasn't the ride been just too beautiful?" Jean sighed. "I can't bear to think we must turn back to go home." "Home? Why it's not late," Harry argued, but Jean shook her head.