Tin Swift

Hink was a questioning sort of man, but he was not going to question this.

She was dying, his ship. Plummeting to her death. He wasn’t going to let that happen. Mae Lindson’s song that echoed through his veins wasn’t going to let that happen.

Captain Hink knew how to trim the wings, he understood the wind as if he had been born to it. And he knew he called out commands to his men. He knew that they answered, just as his own hands fell to the wheel and steered her steady, over a landside he could see beneath him as if he had eyes in his feet.

The gunshots didn’t mean anything. He could flick the tip of a wing, and never be touched. But there was only so much the wind could give him. He needed a place to land, a safe place, a hidden place. Somewhere nearby that the other birds wouldn’t see.

There was a crack through the mountains that led to a canyon. Most ships didn’t bother with it, being too narrow to land in, and nothing in the canyon worth landing for.

It would be perfect. A safe place to make repairs. A safe place to rest.

Hink steered toward the narrow slit in the mountainside, an act of suicide on a bright and sunny day, and a handshake with death at night with a crippled ship.

“You won’t make it, Captain,” Guffin shouted from somewhere behind the woman’s song.

“Like hell I won’t.” Hink laughed.

The Swift pushed her way on, the wind laying the sky on her back, and pushing her belly up, up. Foothills, trees, scraping the hull. Hink gritted his teeth. There’d be more to repair, landing gear fouled. But he could make it. She could make it. All he needed was one good gust of tailwind.

“Wind,” he said. “Give me wind.”

And it was there for him, wind rising, warm as a blessing, lifting his wings, pushing the Swift just a little faster, aiming at the notch in the rocks, as his crew cursed and prayed and the Swift beneath him, around him, responded to his every command.

Captain Hink could see the path as clear as if it were lit by a hundred gas lanterns. He steered the little ship straight and true through the crack in the mountainside, and out to the canyon beyond.

The Swift tucked wing tight, and slid down, like a feather on a string, toward the little hollow hidden from above by the overhang of rocks.

Easy as thumbing a button through a hole. Hink called orders to ready for landing on the broken gear. Like a blind man on a well-practiced route, he and her crew brought the Swift down, a little hot, but without more than a rattle or two before she was set, solid and true, on the earth again.

The prayer, the women’s voices, the taste of honey, and the feel of the ship upon him stripped away.

Captain Hink blinked hard to get his bearings.

Mae Lindson was no longer touching his shoulder. She was standing in front of him. No, she was falling, fainting. Hink let go of the wheel and reached out for her, but Cedar Hunt was there, and caught her up before she fell.

For a moment Cedar Hunt stood in front of him, more wolf in his gaze than Captain Hink had seen in the wild beasts themselves. He suddenly wished he had a gun in his hand.

“She saved your life,” Cedar Hunt snarled. Then, “Don’t touch her.”

He strode away past Rose Small in the hammock to the wolf, who was on his feet, ears tipped back and head down, staring at Hink with the selfsame killing eyes as Cedar Hunt.

Maybe they really were brothers.

Hink looked over the crew members. All three men looked a little rattled and were taking a hard pull on flasks of hooch. Mr. Seldom lifted his in a sort of salute toward Hink, then took another generous swallow.

Hink patted his jacket for his own ounce of courage.

“What kind of a cow patty landing was that?” Molly Gregor asked as she stormed out from the boiler room bringing with her the smell of soot and oil and hot wet metal. She took in the sight of Cedar Hunt laying Mae Lindson on the floor and then leveled a blistering glare at the captain.

“What did you do to her?” she demanded.

Hink tugged out a flask of bourbon and took a long swallow. He’d need it to put a calm in his voice.

He knew better than to rile up the Gregor woman, especially after a hard landing. She didn’t like hard landings much. None of the crew did. Though a hard landing was a damn sight better than not being around to complain about it.

“Don’t know what Mae Lindson did exactly,” Hink said. “She somehow made for bringing the bird down a little easier. I wouldn’t have threaded the buttonhole if she hadn’t…” He paused. “What did she do?” he asked Cedar Hunt. “Was it some kind of witchcraft?”

Molly rolled her eyes, then turned to Mr. Hunt. “You’ll have to forgive the captain here. Most days he has brains in his head.”

“Now, Molly,” Captain Hink said. “That was a question from me to him. Let’s let him have his say. Was it some kind of witchcraft?” He nodded toward Rose Small and the wolf before meeting Mr. Hunt’s steady gaze. “Mr. Hunt?”

“Yes.”

Funny how one word can stick a finger in the world’s gears and gum things up for a second or two.

“Huh.” It wasn’t much to say, but it was all he had in him. He tipped the flask, then walked over and offered it to Molly. She took a nip and handed it back.

“Anything we can do for her?” Molly asked. Heart of gold, that woman. He didn’t know if she believed that they had a witch on board. Even if she did, Molly wouldn’t let that get in the way of basic courtesy.

“Hot tea,” Cedar Hunt said. “Maybe food. But I think she’ll be unconscious for a while.”

“Well, then,” Hink said. “We have work to be getting done. Molly, if you could rustle some grub and tea, we could all use some. The boiler survive the bump?”

“No cracks that I’ve found yet, Captain,” she said.

“Good. Guffin, see to it we’re lashed down tight for the night. Ansell, drain the airbags. Seldom, see how bad off the fans and gears are.”

“What are you going to do, Captain?” Guffin asked.

“Drink the rest of this flask and tell you to get to work,” Hink said.

Molly went back to the galley and the men got moving, though they muttered loud enough to make sure he heard just what they thought of him, his mother, and his orders.

Once everyone was out of earshot, Hink turned to Cedar Hunt.

“Have a seat, Mr. Hunt,” he said as he dropped himself into one of the wicker and leather chairs next to a small table. The Swift wasn’t exactly set up for passenger comfort, but they’d long ago decided that the basic niceties were necessities.

For a moment, Hink didn’t think the man was going to oblige his invitation.

Then Mr. Hunt walked over and sat.

Hink handed him the flask. Mr. Hunt took a hard swallow and handed it back.

“Your brother’s a wolf, and your woman’s a witch,” the captain mused. “I find that some of the more interesting things I’ve seen lately. As luck would have it, I happen to have several hours on my hands to listen to the explanation of who you are, where you’re coming from, and where you’re going to. And, oh yes, why.”

Mr. Hunt didn’t say anything, just gave him that hard bronze gaze.

Hink settled in to outwait the man. Because they weren’t moving a single step farther along this trail until he knew exactly what kind of trouble he had on his hands.

CHAPTER EIGHT

General Alabaster Saint’s sword tapped the top of his boot with each stride as he paced the edge of Candlewick Bluff. The rocky ground beneath him cracked like bones of the dead as he surveyed the lower range and valley of the Big Horn Mountains spread wide before him.

He was waiting. Waiting in the cold dark before dawn, all the men in his militia sleeping, the three airships lashed down and cool in the night. Waiting for a message from his spies.