Devil wagged his tail furiously, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as he looked inquiringly at his master. The Phantom tethered the horse in the shadow of the trees. "Wait, boy," he told the wolf in a whisper. Devil went to sit near Hero, his head down on his forepaws, squinting at the Phantom with his glowing yellow eyes. "I won't be long," said his master reassuringly. Hero tossed his head disdainfully as the Phantom strode away across the rocky ground. In the rear of the building, which looked like a deserted mining headquarters, there was a tumble-down roof, sagging on heavy oaken pillars. The roof was the canopy of an old well. The moonlight glinted on the rusted ironwork at the well-head and on the handle of the winding gear. A big board, faded with time and weather, had written on it in black lettering: WELL CONDEMNED. EXTREME DANGER. NO TRESPASSING. Underneath was the name of Colonel Weeks of the Jungle Patrol. The Phantom, glancing keenly about him in the moonlight, chuckled at the notice, and not for the first time.
What do You think about The Slave Market Of Mucar?
