"A glider, sir. It's a sport not particularly popular these days."
"What keeps it up, confound it?"
Paul Warren looked at him. "The same thing that keeps a hawk up, an
albatross, a gull--"
"A vulture, you mean," Cogswell snarled. He watched it for another long
moment, his face working. He whirled on his chief of artillery. "Jed,
can you bring that thing down?"
The other had been viewing the craft through field binoculars, his face
as shocked as the rest of them. Now he faced his chief, and lowered the
glasses, shaking his head. "Not with the artillery of pre-1900. No,
sir."
"What can you do?" Cogswell barked.
The artillery man was shaking his head. "We could mount some Maxim guns
on wagon wheels, or something. Keep him from coming low."
"He doesn't have to come low," Cogswell growled unhappily. He spun on
Lieutenant Colonel Warren again. "When were they invented?" He jerked
his thumb upward. "Those things."
Warren was twisting his face in memory. "Some time about the turn of the
century."
"How long can the things stay up?"
Warren took in the surrounding mountainous countryside. "Indefinitely,
sir. A single pilot, as long as he is physically able to operate. If
there are two pilots up there to relieve each other, they could stay
until food and water ran out."
"How much weight do they carry?"
"I'm not sure. One that size, certainly enough for two men and any
equipment they'd need. Say, five hundred pounds."
Cogswell had his telescope glued to his eyes again, he muttered under
his breath, "Five hundred pounds! They could even unload dynamite over
our horses. Stampede them all over the reservation."
"What's going on?" Baron Zwerdling shrilled. "What's going on Marshal
Cogswell?"
Cogswell ignored him. He watched the circling, circling craft for a full
five minutes, breathing deeply. Then he lowered his glass and swept the
assembled officers of his staff with an indignant glare. "Ten Eyck!" he
grunted.