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

smelting and forming metal objects for as many hundreds of years as the white man had?”
    â€œBut, they’re ignorant savages,” Bookworthy protested with typical white blindness.
    â€œYeah. Only what I said was, ’what if?’ You may not believe it, but what I said at the trading post is true. They’re smart, they’re crafty, they’s absolutely fearless, and they know better than to line up and march off to shoot at each other and stab away at one another with bayonets in the heat of the day. I tell you, Reverend, it’s downright frightening to consider.”
    Bookworthy still wasn’t sold. “You’ve been out here, among them, for longer than any of us. I suppose you could be right. If so, let us be thankful it wasn’t that way.”
    Preacher grunted and went on his rounds, inspecting the fringes of the camp. He didn’t expect any hostiles to swarm down on them, not so close to the trading post in Trout Creek Pass. Nor had he seen any sign throughout the day of any drifting bands of white trash. Yet, an uneasiness gnawed at him.
    Maybe it was his stomach, Preacher considered a half hour later when he returned to the Pettibone wagons. The aromas rising from the cook fire made him growly as a grizzly on the first day after hibernation. His mouth watered when his nose made out the distinct scent of apple pie. Guiding these folks would have a few advantages after all, he decided.
    * * *
    Over a week’s time, Preacher learned a lot more about the gospel-shouters. Enough, indeed, to make him uncomfortable. Some, he knew, had joined this crazy expedition as a last-chance opportunity. They considered themselves to be losers, talked and acted like it, too. They wouldn’t last a year out here.
    Some would go around the bend, wander off, and get killed by any number of roving predators, human as well as animal. That would be their problem, he supposed. Others, like the Bookworthys, had the wild fire of the zealot in their eyes. They could be trouble. Good thing they were all going back. If they got there, he reminded himself.
    Since early that morning, which Preacher reckoned put them a short three days travel from Bent’s Fort, he had been seeing signs of others out there. Indians, and a lot of them, with no indication of women or children along. Of course, they could be a hunting party. Not likely, Preacher reasoned. Accordingly, he rode back to the lead wagon and spoke with one of the several drivers hired by those unable to handle their own teams.
    â€œWhen we make camp for the night, Buck, I want you to circle the wagons. Make it nice and tight. After the teams are unhitched, make it box to box. No spaces between. And leave the animals inside the circle.”
    Having grown wise on the way out, the burly driver frowned at this. “You expectin’ trouble?”
    â€œMight be. There appears to be Injuns out there. I’ve seen signs. That means they know we’re here.”
    â€œI’ll see to it, Preacher,” Buck Dempsey agreed.
    Preacher studied the stout, dark-complexioned Buck Dempsey. He gauged a steadiness in the hickory nut eyes and smooth brow, the set of a square chin. Yeah, he’d do to lead the other drivers. “I see you’ve got a good Hawken along. Were I you, I’d see to it being loaded and at hand from now on. I’m gonna drift along the line and tell the others.”
    Preacher’s efforts met with somewhat less than enthusiastic results. Reverend Bookworthy was quite vocal in his objections. “We will do no such thing. I am a man of God, and these are the children of God. Besides, we’ll only be inviting trouble,” he pontificated. “If the savages see us all bristling with arms and in a defensive position, it will alienate them.”
    â€œReverend, they don’t need us to alienate them. If it’s some what’s got it in for whites, they’ll already be as sore as a boil