"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?"