The Amish Spaceman

DEAN AND EMERSON left the kanteen after a quick meal and round of toasts by all the men. Captain Davies had given them a box full of sandwiches and refused any payment.

  Back at the old bomber, they found Tony squatting in the shade of a wing, watching the flat fields and distant horizon with an unmoving gaze.

  “Thanks for the food, Cherokee,” he murmured.

  Dean shrugged. “You’re welcome. So, when can we leave?”

  Tony spat on the ground. “We can’t.”

  “What? Is there something wrong with the plane––I mean, Soaring Dove?”

  “There is nothing wrong with Soaring Dove. Her cylinders are as clean as snow and her oil as sweet as the Ohio. Look beyond the fields and above those trees.”

  Dean followed the line of Tony’s finger. A white dot crawled across the sky above the green plains. Another aircraft, this one yellow, followed the first one at a distance.

  “So? Two planes, probably coming in to land. Not a shocking thing to see at an airport.”

  Tony sighed. “You do not feel the sky-spirits or have eyes as sharp as Sekumbah the rooster like I do. They circle, waiting for us to rise from the runway, when they will descend upon us with metal talons like Hawk in the second season of Buck Rogers. We must wait until nightfall to make our escape.”

  “But that’s hours away, Tony. We’re in Nebraska and I have to be in Charleston the day after tomorrow!”

  “My friend, there is no other way. Soaring Dove is an amazing creature, but she can’t outrun a Cheyenne scout.”

  “Cheyenne?”

  “The white plane dips and soars in the manner of the Cheyenne tribe, and there are no better pilots. The yellow plane follows at a distance, but the Cheyenne is not worried––from the second pilot’s quick turns and uncertain handling, he is certainly a round-eye. Compared to the Cheyenne, even the best pale-skinned pilots are like flies on a buffalo’s ear.”

  “Can we wait until they run out of fuel?”

  Tony laughed. “That will work for the yellow plane, but the Cheyenne are masters of fuel mixture and can glide for many days on thermals left by Nenemehkia, the storm god.”

  “Let’s take off anyway. It doesn’t matter if they follow us to Ohio.”

  “If that second plane is FBI, it definitely matters.”

  “FBI?”

  Tony cleared his throat. “The ... um ... Federal Bakery Inspectorate, that’s what I meant to say. As I’ve told you before, the baking powder I have in my plane is highly illegal in Ohio.”

  Dean paced below the wing of the bomber. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “I hope it’s not a rain dance because we don’t do that anymore.”

  “No, it’s not. Help Emerson inside the plane and start the engines.”

  He burst through the door of Kelly’s Kanteen, out of breath. The raucous laughter ceased, just as before.

  “Gentlemen,” gasped Dean. “Brave pilots ... of those beautiful planes outside ... I need your help!”