Page 18 of Calder Country

So far, there were just two pilots, Ruby and her father. Between shipments, they lived at a boardinghouse in Miles City. When a new shipment came in, a car would pick them up and drive them to the old farm, where they would stay and work, swilling coffee and getting little rest, until all the deliveries were made. Early on, Art had made all the flights. Ruby had helped the ground crew and worked on her training. Now that business was picking up, she’d been pressed into service as a pilot.

At this early hour, there was barely enough light to see the contours of the land below—the hills and pastures, the roads and farms. Flying by daylight ran too much risk of being seen and tracked. Art was already making night flights, using the plane’s instruments to guide him. But Ruby was still learning. She needed the faint first glow of morning to find her way.

Worries plagued her. So many things could go wrong. The client was new—always an added risk. The landing with the loaded fuselage would be tricky, the added weight changing the dynamics of the plane. Then there was the rough terrain, a sure guarantee of a hard landing.

The worst of it was not knowing what to expect. She carried a small pistol in the pocket of her coveralls, in case she needed to defend herself or her cargo. But in some instances, a weapon would be useless. She could crash or land in the wrong place. Or she could climb out of the cockpit to be surrounded by armed revenuers and carted off to jail.

Stop it! Just remember what you’ve been taught.

As Ruby flew the plane south over Blue Moon and began a slow descent, she willed herself to focus on her job. Everything would be all right, she told herself. All she had to do was land, collect payment, unload the crates, and take off again. By then there would be enough light to find her way back to the base.

She’d been told that a bonfire would be lit to guide her to the landing. Scanning the ground below, Ruby could see the burning beacon in the shadowy dawn. She was on target. Heart in her throat, she banked the plane, circled, and headed down.

* * *

Mason heard the distant drone of the plane before he spotted it in the sky—a dark speck, like a flying insect, above the pale horizon.

He added more dry wood to the smoldering bonfire. Flames leaped, crackling in the morning stillness. The plane banked and turned toward him. Mason’s pulse quickened. His first shipment was about to arrive.

The cave was ready, the walls and ceiling cleansed by fire, the ashes on the floor covered with layers of canvas. All that remained of the mysterious dead man was his brass belt buckle, which Mason had dropped into his vest pocket. He had done all the work himself. There was no one he could trust to help him.

The roar of the engine grew louder as the plane swept in for a landing. There was no proper runway out here, and no way to build one without a construction crew. Using a horse and a chain, Mason had ripped out the larger sagebrush clumps, thistles, and cedars; but the long strip of ground was still dotted with low scrub, rocks, and holes. His telephone contact had assured him that the pilot would have the experience to land on the roughest terrain. Mason wasn’t sure he believed the man. Now the moment of truth had arrived.

The plane came in low and fast—too fast. After almost skimming the ground, it rose again, banked, and came in for a second try. Mason forgot to breathe as the craft touched down, shot forward, and bounced once, then again, coming down hard before shuddering to a stop.

Mason sprinted toward the plane. The engine had died. The plane’s only movement was the lazy turning of the propeller. Coming closer, he could see the pilot struggling in the rear cockpit.

Reaching up, he climbed onto the wing. The pilot seemed dazed, flailing at the controls. Unable to reach the seat belt, Mason lifted off the goggles and yanked off the leather helmet.

He gasped as he saw who it was.

* * *

Hand on the stick, feet on the rudder bar, ailerons up . . . the jarring collision with the ground. Where was she now? Was the plane all right? Ruby opened her eyes, but the cracked lenses of her goggles blurred everything.

Then the goggles and helmet came off, as if ripped away by an invisible hand. Her vision cleared, along with her mind. She was still in the cockpit. A face hovered above her—piercing green eyes, oddly familiar, gazed into hers.

“Thank God you’re alive, Ruby.” The voice seemed to echo in her head. And how did the speaker know her name?

“Is the plane all right?” She muttered the first concern that came to mind.

“It appears to be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

That rough-edged baritone. Where had she heard it? Ruby stared at him, finally remembering. “You,” she said. “I never expected to see you again.”

He shrugged. “Small world. Right now, we need to get you out of the plane. If you’ll unfasten your seat belt, I’ll give you a hand.”

She unbuckled the strap, ignoring his proffered hand as she climbed out onto the wing and jumped to the ground. “I’ll be fine. I just need to collect your payment, unload the cargo, and be on my way.”

“You’re not going anywhere until we make sure you’re all right. Sit down on that log. I’ll get you some water.”

“I’ll be fine.” Still standing, she struggled to collect her thoughts. She couldn’t remember stopping the plane, only the rough landing. The seat belt would have kept her from being thrown very far, but she could have struck the instrument panel or the windscreen, the impact cracking her goggles.

She needed to get back to the base. Returning late from her first delivery would worry her father and land her in no end of trouble with their employers. She owed Art that much.

“Here, drink this.” He handed her an open canteen. Ruby tilted it to her lips. The water was fresh and cool. She took several deep swallows and returned the canteen to him. She did feel a bit shaky, but that would pass, she told herself. Meanwhile, she had a job to do.

“Now sit down,” he said.

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