Horses were coming down the road from the head of the valley.

The hour was unusual for riders to come in.

Presently the narrow, moonlit lane was crossed at its far end by black moving objects.
Two horses Duane discerned.
"It's Bland!" whispered the woman, grasping Duane with shaking hands.
"You must run! No, he'd see you.

That 'd be worse.

It's Bland! I know his horse's trot." "But you said he wouldn't mind my calling here," protested Duane.
"Euchre's with me.