The cold wind blew against his face, and his shoulders grew stiff. But Cromwell Dixon shook off the nagging discomfort and continued aiming his aeroplane toward the glow of the bonfire straight ahead. Keep flying toward that fire, he told himself, leaning left and right, balancing the craft in the choppy currents of air. Just aim for the smoke.
The wafting black cloud of smoke curled, ghostlike, off the ridge of the Continental Divide. The fire was a beacon guiding him in, and the smoke, lifting from the flames, danced close to the clouds-those wispy white puffs moving just out of reach, like the periphery of a dream.
His knuckles gripped the wheel tightly, whitening inside his thick black gloves. His eyes widened as he peered, unblinking, through his aviation goggles. There was so much to see, flying so high. The ground below rose up sharply, and the pointed tips of the pines reached for his wheels, which hung below the craft like the dangling legs of a mosquito. And then the earth fell steeply away into dark-green gullies, crisscrossed with animal trails.
You're almost there, he told himself. Ten minutes of flying. Ten minutes since he left the fairgrounds back in Helena. Ten minutes since the plaudits of thousands-men and women dressed in the finest clothes 1911 had to offer-sent him soaring into the wide Montana sky. Well-wishers and dreamers, the kindliest people he'd ever met. Such a refreshing change from the skeptics he'd encountered during his travels west. Remember the ones who laughed when you said you'd fly, he reminded himself. Flyboy. Birdman. It's not what they call you. It's what you answer to.
The smoke grew darker. Fly to it, he thought, urging the wavering machine forward. He aimed for the smoke, looking to pass through it.
His aeroplane, the Little Hummingbird, was made of spruce and metal, and was born from a dream as old as man himself. Flying overhead, an aeroplane defied logic. What made it fly, anyway? Never mind, he thought. It flew. That was enough.
The wind whistled through the wires and struts. The engine roared, the radiator drinking in the high Montana air. The drone of the propeller spinning behind him was a steady, monotonous sound, tedious and even. Cromwell's cap of wool and leather resisted the chill, though his fingers grew numb, his cheeks burned.
Erratic mountain currents tossed the Little Hummingbird on an uneven keel. Hold on tight, he told himself, gritting his teeth. You're almost there. Find something to distract your thoughts.
He saw his sister Lulu smiling, her pretty face wrapped in bobbing blonde curls. He pictured his mother, Annie, waiting for word of his impossible journey, her fingers crossed, her eyes sparkling with wonder and concern. If only they were here to see this, to savor the splendor of this moment. Lulu might break out singing "I'm Crazy When the Band Begins to Play," or act out a sketch from "Meet Me Down at the Corner." His mother would smile, shake her head softly, and say she was proud.
No man had ever crossed the Rocky Mountains by air. No man had ever taken an aeroplane across the crown of the continent-that forest-green jewel that cracks the raindrops into halves and sends them off to separate corners of the world.
Five minutes to go, Cromwell thought, looking to the mountaintop ahead, trying to estimate its distance. The propeller purred and the engine droned, guzzling down the fuel in the tank. Don't look away, Cromwell thought. Keep flying toward that fire.