Five minutes passed, and then Buffalo Bill came up to Mainwaring, who was standing like a man dazed, and said to him: “Neither of the girls has been killed. Their bodies are not to be found.” “And that means?” The young man was pale to the lips as he asked this question. Cody did not reply. “You know what it means, Buffalo Bill! They have been carried off by the redskins. They will be exposed to a fate worse than death. They will be tortured with the fiendish cruelty of which only the Indian squaws are capable.” “Steady! Brace up, old fellow!” said Buffalo Bill. “Don’t give way to despair at once. All is not lost. We can follow the trail of the Shawnees, and the chances are good that we may rescue the girls. The redskins cannot have a big start of us.” Mainwaring’s face lost its look of blank despair when he heard these words. “Thank Heaven, Cody!” he gasped. “You have lifted a load off my mind. Yes, we will follow. We will rescue the girls, and we will make the redskins pay dearly for what they have done.” Before Buffalo Bill could reply he was amazed by hearing a feeble voice calling to him: “Marse Cody!” Turning on his heel, he saw a black face peering out at him from the upraised tent of one of the wagons. It was the face of Norfolk Ben, the negro servant of the Doyles. “Marse Cody!” the faithful black repeated, beckoning to him. Buffalo Bill had been rooted to the spot in amazement for a moment, but now he rushed eagerly up to the wagon. He jumped into it, and a new surprise awaited him. There, stretched out on the floor, he saw the form of Mr. Doyle, pallid as death and covered with blood from a gunshot wound through the breast and another through the leg. Bending down swiftly, Buffalo Bill placed his hand over the man’s heart and felt his pulse. To his joy he found that he still lived, and by a swift examination of the wounds, which he dressed and bound up, he convinced himself that he even had a fair chance of recovery. While he was attending to the wounded man in this manner, with Mainwaring looking eagerly on through the flap of the wagon tent, Norfolk Ben said nothing. The poor negro was in a bad way. He had been cut over the shoulder with a tomahawk, which had inflicted a mere flesh wound, but one which, nevertheless, had cost him the loss of a great deal of blood. It was also plainly to be seen that he had been hit over the head with the butt of a gun with a violence that would have cracked the skull of any one but a negro. He sat on the floor of the wagon, nursing his sore head, until Buffalo Bill rose up from his ministrations to the unconscious old man. Then he said: “Marse Cody!--dem two sweet gals! Dem two cherubims! Whar am dey?” “I don’t know, Ben. I wish I did,” replied the border king sadly. Ben gave a groan which evidently came from the bottom of his heart and gave the plainest proof of the sincerity of his affection for his young mistresses.