Tin Swift

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.

Hink wondered if Les Mullins had pulled himself off his cabin floor back at Stump Station and talked Smith into a little round-the-mountain look-see.

It was getting to weigh on his conscience, keeping these men at the chase. He much preferred to gun right for them and solve the problem on the clearest of terms—with firepower, or if they wanted the personal touch, fists.

A racket from inside the ship had Hink pulling his face out of the wind.

Seldom was cranking up the basket.

“I’ll be damned,” Hink said.

In that basket was a wolf. Looked common enough, gray fur with black at the head and tipping the ears. Except it was sitting that basket as easy as a conductor sits a train. Ears perked up, and tongue lolling.

Cedar Hunt said something to it, and the wolf held still until he and Seldom pulled the basket into the ship. Seldom gave Hink one last look—a chance for him to change his mind.

“Let the beast go, Mr. Seldom,” Hink said. “You do know we’ll kill it deader than Adam if it does any harm.”

Cedar Hunt pushed his hat down closer on his head. “There will be no need, Captain. Wil, stay with Mae and Rose.”

And darned if the wolf didn’t give Cedar Hunt a glance, then trot off to the hammock and the women.

“Buckle up and hold on to your saddles, ladies and gents,” Captain Hink said. “We’re flying this bird out of here.”

He strode to the prow of the ship and clamped his line onto the overhead, then stomped his boots into the floor belts. Cedar Hunt, Mae Lindson, and likely that wolf got themselves settled as Mr. Seldom secured the door and stowed the basket.

Another gunshot bloomed gold and white against the sky, licking across clouds and terrain alike. Coming from the northwest. Hink waited for the next shot, which would give him a better fix on which way the Saginaw was drifting.

“Captain?” Guffin asked.

Hink held up one finger for silence, then leaned forward to better scan the sky. Another boom roared out, a little farther north. Good enough—she was drifting back up to the stations on the west side of the mountains. All they had to do was ease out of here east-wise.

“Keep her low and slow, Mr. Guffin,” he said. “Due east, easy like.”

Captain Hink pulled the bell line and knew Molly would stoke up the furnace. Not that they needed speed now, but if they were seen by the ship, they’d need to be out of there as fast as this tin lady could scream.

The fans changed their song again, and the Swift made her way easy above rooftops and trees, hugging the side of the valley as she snuck along to the east.

Half a mile, a mile. Coming on three, Hink started to think they might have done the near impossible and picked the devil’s pocket.

“Captain,” Lum Ansell shouted. “Captain, sir! We got a hawk.”

“Where?” Hink checked the windows for a hawk-class ship. Unlike the Swift, which was built for height, and speed in climbs and dives, a hawk wasn’t so much built for glim harvesting. Hawks were built for disabling other ships, ripping them to shreds, taking their glim, and scavenging anything of value.

Not a friend of any station, not a friend of any harvester or pirate, hawks weren’t nothing but killing crafts, bristling with edges and flame and guns.

“Port side,” Guffin said. “She’s lighting her arrows.”

“High damn it all,” Captain Hink said. He gave it a second or two, just enough time to decide if it was the kind of situation to stay and fight, or the sort of thing that a smart man ran from.

He hit the bell three times. “Give me every ounce she’s got, Molly Gregor,” he said, though he knew she couldn’t hear him.

“We’re gonna outstrip her, men. Mind your heads and keep your hands on the controls. The road’s about to get rough.”

“Bad, bad idea,” Guffin was saying. He was so against it, he’d forgotten he was cursing by the alphabet and was instead just repeating “bad, bad idea” over and over again.

Seldom jogged back to the cannons, laying the lines so he could load two as fast as possible. Without orders, Mr. Hunt stepped up and took over preparing the port cannon for fire, freeing Seldom to man the starboard gun.

The bell from the boiler room rang a sharp three hits. Molly had her stoked up hot and ready to ride.

“If you’ve got it, hold it,” Hink said.

Then he hit the full throttle. The engine surged like a river breaking a dam, a tornado’s worth of roar pushing through her.

The Swift shuddered, riding to the edge of rattling apart, shaking so hard and flying so fast, she was screaming. The tin bones she was strung upon screeched like a choir of angels with the devil’s hands around their throats.

Captain Hink aimed her up. Straight up. Such a harsh angle that his boots slipped the straps, and he had to do some serious holding on to keep her on the track.

“Captain,” Lum Ansell yelled, his bass voice rolling over the scream of the ship. “Captain! The hawk!”

“I see her, Mr. Ansell,” Hink hollered. “I reckon she sees us.”