ind, I'll take them both.
Unable to ride the brigand down, Rowland, acting on Leiva's hints, affected to renounce the chase.
Vasquez believed the storm gone by. His scouts were near the sheriff of Los Angeles day and night, and finding that he sat in his office, carelessly smoking his cigar, and chatting lazily with anyone who called, the scouts imagined that Sheriff Rowland had given up the game, and that the mystery of Tres Pinos, like so many other mysteries of crime in California, was a thing of the past.
Ten miles from Los Angeles, at the foot of a ridge of hills, stands the lonely ranch belonging to Greek George-Jorge el Griego — which Vasquez made his lair.
Windows command the two approaches to his house.
A look-out sweeps his line of road.
A dozen trails, unknown to strangers, lead into the hills, in which are many clumps and caves.
It is a station to defy surprise.
Greek George was in Los Angeles, watching the Sheriffs movements, and reporting to his c