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"Thank you, but...."

They heard the clippety-clop of horses' hoofs, running. Not one horse this time, but three, bearing their riders like so many indistinguishable dark blurs through the night, sweeping on to the cabin. A man, one of the riders, was laughing, and Lynette Brooke knew that already here was Billy Winch returning. Babe Deveril, too, must have recognized the voice, for he jerked his head up and stiffened where he stood, oblivious of the fact that she had broken off with an objecting "but," conscious only of a hated man's impertinence.

Those three were expert riders, men who lived in the saddle. They and their horses seemed moulded centaurs for certainty and the grace of the habitual horseman. They came on at such a break-neck speed and so close that the girl whipped back, thinking that they would run her and her companion down. Then, with that quick light pluck at the reins, they brought their horses down from a mad run to a trembling standstill.

"He said you was to meet him ... about now!"