Tin Swift(20)

Molly stood at the helm, breathing gear unsecured at her neck. Guffin leaned near the vertical and horizontal rudder controls, scowling like he’d gotten his knuckles rapped by the teacher. He was a slow-eyed and sad-looking fellow with dark brows set too wide and light hair shaved up high off the back of his neck, but left to grow at the top so that his whole head took on a sort of sorry mushroom look.

Mr. Seldom was back among the glim gear, using his pocketknife to clean up a net spread at his feet.

The other member of the crew, Mr. Lum Ansell, a squat, short-necked man of unknown heritage, was sleeping up against the starboard wall, his hat pulled over his round leather brown face, the brim stopped by the breathing gear latched across his chin. Out of all of them, Lum never seemed to find much use for the breathing gear, no matter how high they flew.

“Listen up,” Captain Hink said.

All eyes turned to him. Even Lum shoved his hat back, awake and sharp, his hand drifting to the knife at his hip, as it always did before he was fully awake and taking a straighter sit.

“Looks like we have a cat come prowling,” Captain Hink said. “Or more like a bear. Captain Barlow’s on the sniff.”

“Barlow?” Molly frowned. “What’d we do to stuff his flue?”

“Figure it has something to do with Les Mullins and his idea that I’m Marshal Hink Cage.”

Guffin sucked on the tobacco tucked in his lip. “And?”

“And near as I can tell, Les Mullins is doing General Alabaster Saint’s business. Since that includes seeing that I’m hung and strung, I’d say that puffer out there is looking to kill me.”

“Could be they want our glim stake,” Lum Ansell rumbled in his deep baritone.

“Could,” Hink agreed. “Except for this.” He pulled the tin star out of his pocket.

Molly took in a breath and let it out on a soft curse. She’d met George Rucker, the boy he’d given the star. Hell, all of them had met George.

“So Les Mullins knows you’re Marshal Cage,” Guffin said. “Think he’s gonna hire out Barlow and his big tug out there to take you in?”

“Black Sledge has the boilers and the guns for it,” Hink said.

Guffin shook his head, that hair of his stirring like a tassel in the wind. “Still don’t make no sense to me. Takes money to put a ship up. Your head ain’t worth it. No offense, Marshal.”

“Well, if it ain’t me,” Hink said, “I’m still plentiful curious as to why they’re flying. No glim in the heavens today, and last I heard, Barlow was pulling lines and headed to Texas to weather out the cold.”

“It is strange to find him prowling the west side of the range,” Molly said, “at the same time Stump Station happened to empty out to see us off with their guns this morning.”

“I say it’s time to shut up and hunt bear,” Hink said with a grin. “Molly, bring the boiler on line. Guffin, man the rudders. Seldom, strap up the hooks and ready the ropes. And Lum, see that the cannon’s set to burn.”

He probably didn’t need to tell his crew what to do, they fell to it so fast. Ride the windy trail together long enough and people knew what was what and how to see to getting it done.

After all, there was nothing but their skill, hands, and trust in each other between touching the heavens and being crushed by the earth.

Hink readjusted his gear and knew his crew was doing the same. Then he set his feet in the straps bolted to the floor in front of the helm. He didn’t intend to take her out hot. No, he’d rather the Swift slip up behind the old steamer, and follow in the Black Sledge’s wake.

Caution was half of what kept a glimman alive.

The other half was plain foolhardy luck.

The crew of the Swift had both, ace-high.

Molly Gregor pushed her goggles over her eyes and strode off to the boilers, shutting the blast door behind her.

Hink waited for the bell to ring, indicating that the Swift was steamed and ready to burn sky.

The cord tugged and the bell in the ceiling frame rattled once. The Swift was powered to go.

Guffin, Seldom, and Lum all pushed their feet into floor braces. Hink studied the eastern sky, getting a visual on the Black Sledge.

There she was, a bulk against the intermittent clouds, coming in and out of sight like a barge slipping through fog down a white river.

“All right, then,” Hink said, his words muddled by his breathing gear. “Let’s go see what plunder the sky has for us today.”

He signaled Seldom to pull anchor, and the Irishman set to releasing the catch and cranking up the line.

Captain Hink let out the throttle. Like a living thing, the Swift came awake beneath his feet. He could feel her shudder, feel her lift to the wind, feel her strain to go higher, faster. Built to take the air, the Swift pumped up quick.