Read Online Cheyenne Challenge by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online

down a husband, family, and a stout home.” Then Cora confided with vigor, “As for the other alternative, it is, as they say, ’a man’s world.’ They have all the positions on the top of the heap. For a woman who undertakes to support herself or her family, the workplace offers little more than it does for slaves down in the South. Drudgery and dehumanization are the watchword of the few factories and sewing shops, or even teaching positions open to women in the East.”
    â€œBut you chose missionary work,” Preacher brought her back to speed. “What influenced that decision?”
    Cora flushed and diverted her cobalt gaze from Preacher’s slate eyes. “As you said, there are some things I am ’down-right uncomfortable’ talking about.”
    â€œSorry I brought it up. Well, I’d best get along up the string and see what’s ahead. We’ll be makin’ camp in about two hours.”
    â€œSo early?” Cora responded. “There are still hours of daylight.”
    â€œFirst day on the trail. There’ll be need to fix what broke and shake down the way the wagons are loaded. That all takes time. Good day to you, Miss Cora.”
    Preacher rode off along the line of wagons. Behind him he left Cora Ames with a vague sense of being unfulfilled.
    * * *
    Cook fires had been lighted and the pilgrims settled in. Three wagons needed to replace wheels with loose iron tires. Preacher had to admit that was one fancy Eastern idea that had a practical use out here. Shod wheels made sense. The rough trails, mostly only enlarged animal tracks, punished wheeled vehicles mercilessly. The recent advent of iron-tired wheels had its downside as well. It made it easier for these pestiferous greenhorns to travel far beyond any hope of help from civilization when they got in trouble.
    â€œWill you take supper with us, Preacher?” Lidia Pettibone asked sweetly from where she bent over a tripod that held a bubbling pot of stew.
    Preacher drew a deep breath of the rich aroma and identified fresh venison. “Don’t mind if I do. I want to make a round of camp first, if that’s not makin’ it too late for you folks.”
    â€œNot at all. It will be a while, at least.”
    Her husband, Asa, had the strangest occupation Preacher had ever heard of. He was an organist. The freight wagon that accompanied their living quarters held a large bellows-pumped pipe organ, complete with brass tubes to produce the majestic, imperial sounds of that instrument.
    â€œGood dang thing they ain’t headed clear to Or-e-gon,” Preacher muttered aloud to himself. “The tribes twixt here an’ there would be supplied with arrow and lance points for the next century.” Brass, he knew, was mighty precious to the Indians.
    For a people who had never learned to smelt metals, or forge them, or even invented the wheel, they were right adaptable. They appreciated the value of forged or cast metal almost at once. Which meant they were right smart. Which made them damned dangerous. All of a sudden Preacher came upon an impression that was so far-reaching and prescient that it all but staggered him. Given enough time, like the white man had with this new science, and the Indians could easily push folks whose families came from Europe back into the sea.
    â€œGood evening—ah—Brother Preacher,” the Reverend Thornton Bookworthy rumbled as he passed by where Preacher stood staring into space over the concept of industrialized Indians.
    â€œEvenin’, Reverend Bookworthy.” Suddenly he had a burning desire to share his revelation with someone. “I just had me a startlin’ thought.”
    Although he looked pained, Reverend Bookworthy responded with enthusiasm. “I’d be delighted to hear it.”
    â€œIt just come to me, thinkin’ about Pettibone’s pipe organ. What if, when our ancestors came here, the Injuns had been