Harlan walked down to inspect it. It was made of varnished ash and bent oak, with heavy spoked wheels and leather armrests. It looked sturdy, practical, but strangely unused. "It came out of the rear stowage bay," the girl said, her voice carrying easily down the slope. "My friend took it out before leaving so it would be ready for me." Sheriff Caldwell's eyes snapped up from the wheelchair to the aircraft's cockpit. He lunged two steps around to the port side, his hand dropping straight to his revolver. The command pilot’s seat was entirely empty. The harness straps lay splayed across the bucket cushion, unbuckled and cast aside in obvious haste. But the physical evidence of an immediate departure was everywhere: On the left-side aluminum floorboard, a dropped flight-log pencil lay snapped in two. A leather sheepskin-lined flying helmet rested on the seat pan, its intercom wire dangling loose. "Frank," Brawley said, his voice dropping an octave as he raised the muzzle of his carbine. "Someone took off on foot. Couldn't have been more than ten minutes ago."