"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.

"We have got to try the forest trail for just a little bit of the way, Jean," Jack pleaded recklessly. "We won't go far in. It will be like fairyland in there to-night. See how plain the trail is, there must be water somewhere and the trail was made by the deer and antelope on the way to the pool to drink. To-night I shan't believe that anybody knows of these woods but us."

Jack did not wait for an answer. She would not listen to Jean's remonstrance, for all the willfulness in her was aroused and she thought only of her own desire.

She turned Hotspur's head into the woods. There was no chance to ride beside her, as the way was too narrow, so the rest of the party followed in single file.

"You ought to have let me go on ahead, Jack," Harry declared in a worried tone. "You know nothing of this trail and you may come to grief!"

Jacqueline laughed teasingly. "Don't be preachy, Harry. You know Hotspur and I are used to looking after ourselves." Jack whistled like a naughty boy:

"Jack's awfully silly to-night," Jean remarked to Frank Kent. "I hope Aunt Sallie won't mind, but there is nothing for us to do but to keep up with her. We won't get back to the ranch until awfully late."

Frank hesitated. "Look here, Miss Bruce, I know I am a tenderfoot, but do you think we ought to go into these woods at night? Don't think, please, that I am afraid for myself. But Miss Ralston just told me that there might be wolves about. I am not armed, though I believe that Harry has his pistol. I should hate to have you get in trouble."

Jean understood Frank Kent better than Jacqueline did. To tell the truth, he seemed a bit slow to Jack, she liked people with more get up and go, more fire and energy in them. But Jean guessed that Frank had plenty of strength and courage beneath his quiet manner, and Jean was right.

"Wolves don't attack parties, not once in a thousand times," Jean explained simply. "And we are making entirely too much noise to be in any danger. It is the solitary individual the wolves like to get after. They are such mean cowardly wretches."

Frank Kent smiled grimly. The ranch girls were a puzzle to him, they talked about wolves and bears and wild cattle as calmly as most girls spoke of dogs and cats and canary birds, and Frank could see that they were not putting on airs. They would not have gone deliberately into danger any more than a sensible fellow would have done; but Jean and Jack had grown up in a country where men had lived by the killing of wild game. Their house was filled with the skins of wild animals, shot by their father and the cowboys from their place. While they were still little children they had been taught the use of a gun. Jack often had been on hunting trips with her father in the northern parts of the State and was perfectly able to bring down a lynx or a cougar with a well-trained shot between its eyes. She had never been able to shoot a deer, for in spite of being brought up like a boy, her heart failed her at the thought of destroying anything that did not live by preying on other animals.

Jack gave a cry of pleasure. "See!" she called back. "I haven't brought you to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but I have led you to a pool of silver." She had brought Hotspur to a standstill in front of a little silver lake, where the ravine extended in a circle into the woods.

For a moment the four riders were breathless with admiration, then a big brown form lumbered out of a clump of low bushes. Hotspur reared and the indistinct mass rolled by Jacqueline and made for a thicket.

"It's a bear!" Jack shouted triumphantly. "Who would have thought we could have had such luck? Let's go after old Bruin and see what becomes of him; he won't eat us up."

Jack was only joking. She had no real idea of following the bear; she wasn't even sure what beast had trundled by them, but was only in a wild humor and wondered how far the others would follow her. She gave Hotspur a little cut with her whip.

"Come back, Miss Ralston," Frank called sharply. He had ridden near enough to her to reach out for her bridle.

Jack grew more reckless. She sprang aside but did not notice that the ground opened in front of her in a narrow, broken crevice, until Hotspur's fore feet went down the incline and Jack pitched headlong over him, falling with a crash in the brushwood beyond.

In the medley of cries and confusion that followed, Jacqueline did not know whether she had been unconscious a second or an age when she was aroused by a peculiar noise which she was familiar with. It was a horse's terrible cry of pain. She tried to sit up. Jean and Frank Kent had dismounted hurriedly and come over to her, while Harry Pryor was trying to get Hotspur out of the gully.

"I am afraid you will have to help me, Frank, if Miss Ralston isn't hurt; I am afraid Hotspur has broken his leg."

Jacqueline gave a little cry and Jean covered her cousin's eyes with her hands. There was a pain in Jack's shoulder that was wrenching and tearing at her, but it was nothing to the feeling that Harry's words created.

"It can't be true," she sobbed. "I couldn't have hurt my pony like that."

But it was true, for Harry and Frank had Hotspur on the level ground and the little pony lay moaning and neighing pitifully. There was only moonlight to show what had happened, but Jack flung herself down beside him and her tears fell in his shaggy mane. "What can we do?" she begged. "Doesn't any one know how to set a pony's leg?"

Harry shook his head. "You know it's hopeless, Jack. There is but one thing to do for Hotspur. I can ride back to the ranch for help, but it would only prolong his pain."

"You mean you must shoot him, don't you, Harry?" Jack asked.

Jean and Frank both turned away their heads. Even in the moonlight, they could see that Jack's face was ghastly white and her lips almost blue. Only Jean knew how much Jacqueline cared for her pony; he had been her father's gift and for the past three years Jack had hardly ever ridden any other horse, unless Hotspur were too weary to carry her. The thought that her own heedlessness and obstinacy had brought the disaster only made it the harder to bear.

Harry nodded. "It's the only way, Jack, you know."

"All right," Jack answered briefly. "Be quick."

Jean's tears were blinding her but Jack looked straight ahead.

"Take the girls toward home with you, Frank," Harry suggested. "I'll come afterwards."

"I would rather wait until it is over," Jack begged. "It is my fault that this has happened and I won't go away like a coward, Hotspur would like to hear my voice until the end." Jack felt her eyes burn and her throat swell as now and then she patted the quivering broncho.

Jean led her cousin a short distance off, but Jack's eyes never left her pony. She saw Harry get out his pistol, load it and point straight at Hotspur. A single shot rang out, a long tremor ran through the horse's body, a single sound like a sigh shook it and Jack's best beloved friend and servant was gone forever.

"Take me back to the ranch, please," she whispered hoarsely, all her courage gone. Harry lifted her on his broncho and for a time walked beside her. Then Frank changed places and Harry rode. For a part of the time, Jack cried silently. She had not mentioned the pain in her arm, although it grew stiffer each moment, but now and then she winced.

"You are hurt, aren't you, Miss Ralston?" Frank questioned. "I was afraid you were all along." But Jack shook her head; she could think of nothing but Hotspur.

Jean, however, was thinking of something else. She remembered that it was after midnight and they were not yet back at the Simpson ranch. What would Aunt Sallie and Mr. Simpson say? And what would Laura and Mrs. Post think of them? Jean shivered, for now that the excitement of their trip with its sad ending was over, she realised that she and Jack ought never to have gone off riding alone. Poor Jean's cheeks were hot with blushes, in spite of her shivers. She and Jack had not meant to do anything wrong, still they ought to have known better. Was it because they had no mother that neither of them had thought?

Just before they reached the ranch, Jack turned a white face toward the other truants. "Remember, please, that whatever blame we receive for to-night's ride, the fault is all mine; I proposed the ride, I would go farther when Jean asked me to turn back. Don't anybody say anything different, for you know it is true."

Frank Kent listened silently. He made no reply, but it was hardly his idea that a man should allow a girl to shoulder all the blame for any mistake.

Mrs. Simpson and her husband rushed down from the veranda, and were followed by a few of Jean's, Jack's and Harry's most intimate friends. Dan Norton was waiting for Frank, with an unpleasant grin on his face. Laura and most of the company had gone to bed, but Laura's mother surveyed the two ranch girls with an expression they had never seen in their free happy girlhood.

"I shall never forgive you children as long as I live," Aunt Sallie exclaimed angrily. "Where in the world have you been? I knew you had been left to your own devices, Jean and Jack, but I did think you had more judgment than to ride across the country at this time of the night."

"It was all my fault," Jack repeated humbly. "We meant to go for just a short ride and I didn't think you would care, but we went farther and farther and Hotspur broke his leg, so we had to come back with just the three horses. Jean did want to turn back sooner, Aunt Sallie," Jack whispered. They were now inside the ranch house, under the lights of the lamps. "Please don't scold her. I know I did very wrong and I'm sorry; won't you please let me explain better in the morning?"

And then Jack saw everything slipping away from her and the place grew horribly dark. Big Mr. Simpson caught her in his arms.

"There, Sallie, don't scold any more to-night," he ordered. "The child is worn out. She did wrong, of course, but I expect she has been punished enough by losing her pony. It's the boys who are most to blame, I'll warrant you. Of course they led the girls on this wild goose chase."

Harry and Frank Kent eagerly bowed their heads. "I didn't think you would believe any such nonsense as Miss Ralston has been telling you," Frank avowed. "Of course Mr. Pryor and I are responsible for the ride and everything that occurred," he ended, with more gallantry than truth.

Aunt Sallie might have kept up her scolding all night, for she was a good-hearted woman with a very high temper, adored by her successful husband and accustomed to having her own way, but she saw that Jack was in pain. There was something in the girl's white face with the dark circles under her eyes and the look of penitence and pain instead of her usual almost haughty expression, that touched her.

"Come to bed, child," she said suddenly. She caught Jack's arm. For the first time, the girl gave a cry of pain at her own hurt. "I think I have sprained my shoulder a little, Aunt Sallie," she explained quietly. "I will be all right in the morning."

It was another hour before Mrs. Simpson got Jack's shoulder properly bandaged and had her stored away in bed. Fortunately, the shoulder was only sprained, not broken. Yet Jack could not sleep; it was not alone the pain that kept her awake, but the realization that she and Jean were no longer little girls and could not do what they liked without a thought. It was she who had led Jean into mischief, yet try as she might, she could not bear the whole burden of the wrongdoing, and she wished to-night, that the ranch girls had some one to look after them, some older woman.