Tin Swift(37)

Captain Hink felt the squeeze around his throat lessen. He could have broken free right then. Could probably have broken free before that if he’d wanted to waste time on stabbing the man with the knife he kept up his shirtsleeve.

But he had made a promise to Molly that he wouldn’t completely kill their guests. And he was pretty sure Cedar Hunt was the kind of man who wouldn’t stop fighting until he stopped breathing.

Cedar Hunt’s arm loosened and the gun was pulled away from Hink’s head.

Captain Hink took a couple steps forward and straightened his coat and breathing gear. “If you broke my gear, you’ll pay or replace it,” he said. “See to the wolf. Mr. Seldom will help you. And don’t get so close he can kick you out the door. He’s been of a short temper most of his life.”

A blast cracked against the mountainside, the ricochet sharp as the devil’s laughter.

“We have a visual on that ship yet, Mr. Ansell?” Hink didn’t care what happened between Mr. Hunt and Seldom. He had a ship that needed to keep her skin on her bones.

“What do you see, Mr. Guffin?” He walked up the rocking floor, keeping one hand on the overhead bars for balance.

“Not a mierda of a thing, Captain,” he said.

“Made it to the M’s already?” Hink asked. “Your Spanish is improving, Mr. Guffin. Keep her here. We’ll hover long enough to give Seldom a chance at the wolf. Maybe that will also give our cannon-happy companion a chance to go to hell.”

“Aye,” Guffin said. He pulled levers and Mr. Ansell, who was manning the wheel and humming a deep, slow song, set the rudders and wings in place. The Swift huffed and puffed, her fans running slower, as she came to a full halt, resting on her inflated envelope.

Hink scanned the skies, as much as he could see in the night, without lanterns, up against the wall of a cupped-off valley. He pushed away from the front of the cabin and stomped to the back, opening the rear starboard door. Mr. Hunt and Mr. Seldom stood about midway the ship, on the port door. So far, Mr. Hunt hadn’t gotten himself booted off the ship.

But both men looked intent as Seldom used levers and pulleys to lower the basket. Huh. Hink would have just tried to snatch up the beast with the arm, but it looked like Seldom had decided the basket—the same device they’d used to pull Rose Small up into the ship—was the better way to go.

Captain Hink was surprised Seldom hadn’t insisted that Mr. Hunt ride down and act as bait so he could dump him free a few hundred yards above the ground.

Seldom must have taken some kind of liking to the man. Or maybe he just feared Molly Gregor’s midnight wrench-to-the-head.

Captain Hink spun the lock on the door and pulled it open. He latched his rigging onto the overhead bar, then stepped out, one foot on the running board.

The wind was cold, the night made of teeth that bit through leather, coat, and wool, digging down into the meat of him.

The familiar hum of the Swift’s fans was absent. But there was another sound in the night besides the Swift. Another airship. Captain Hink closed his eyes and lowered his head, much like the praying man he’d never be. He knew the ships that worked the ranges. Knew the sight of them, the smell of them, and most certainly knew the sound of them.

He didn’t know who would be fool enough or desperate enough to be running at night. Air at night wasn’t favorable to most ships. Neither was seeing the elevation changes of the land. Weren’t enough lanterns for running by night to make much sense. And the wet that came along with the cold this late in the season was sure enough to send a ship down like a brick.

The wind stole away his hearing. Then another pounding explosion from the ship’s guns roared out. Too big a gun for Sweet Nelly, not nearly loud enough for Brimstone Devil. Who was out in these parts, wasting money and black powder firing out charges, looking, he knew, to flush them out?

He caught the huff of an engine, working at idle. The wind cut out the sound again, and he shifted his face so the wind was blowing straight into his eyes.

The distant engine caught, then pushed up strong again. Sounded like they had a wet mule in the firebox.

The Saginaw.

Captain Smith, who had the worst luck gambling Hink had ever seen, had lost his last boilerman in a five-card draw. He’d ended up taking on that Boston boy, who rode the furnace with the kind of subtlety he must have learned from working in his daddy’s slaughterhouse.

But why would Smith be out looking for them? Maybe the crewman he’d plucked from the Black Sledge had sent a flare to call up the next passing ship.

Naw, they’d dropped him from high enough, he wouldn’t be awake for a day at the least.