The smell of ozone and scorched horn hung thick over the rafters. Pip did not let go of the rope lashing with its hind claws, and it did not open its warm fold until Ysabet got her left arm under its chest and Ashaun braced her stone left forearm beneath its rear shell to haul it back up onto the flat pine planks.
First they wedged the spare iron pry-bars securely into the tilted wire basket under the span, tying the broken corner up with hemp cord so the remaining nestlings could press their beaks against the grounded iron and dump their charge. Then, moving slowly on shaking legs, they crossed the north half of the bridge toward the far cliff, with Ashaun dragging the copper ground-wire along the main iron chain every step of the way.
When their boots finally hit the solid granite of the north bank—fifty yards down-ridge from where the adult flock was still busily striking the rusted cart rims Chaska had dropped—Pip sank down on all six legs and loosened the fold at its side.
The soot-gray nestling tumbled out onto the rock. It was singed along one wing-edge and breathing hard, but its eyes were bright and whole. It hopped three crooked steps to the nearest rusted iron spike from Chaska’s second bundle and tapped its beak against the metal. One tiny, harmless spark snapped into the spike, and the little bird settled its feathers and tucked its head down as a huge adult…
