To his surprise the negro pointed in the opposite direction to that from which his party had ridden, to another ridge.
“You must be making a mistake, Ben,” said the border king. “We came front the other side.”
“I dunno whar you came from, Marse Cody,” protested the black man. “But he was thar.”
He stuck to this so firmly that Buffalo Bill was compelled to believe him. It was evident that the Indians had not been scared away by the approach of his party. They had been alarmed by some other danger which threatened them.
“I give it up,” the scout confessed finally. “But it really makes no difference. Our course is clear. We must follow the trail of these Shawnees and rescue the girls, if it can be done.”
“An’ Norfolk Ben will come wid you, Marse Cody,” said the faithful negro.
“No, Ben,” replied the king of the scouts. “You are wounded. I must send you to Fort McPherson with your master in one of the wagons. We can hitch up some of our spare horses to it.”
“No, massa, Ben is all right. He mus’ jess go wid you an’ try to find dem sweet cherubims.”
He pleaded so earnestly that Cody had no alternative but to give in to his wish.
The wagon was hitched up, and Mr. Doyle, still unconscious, was sent off to the fort in it, under escort of three scouts.