Tin Swift

CHAPTER TWELVE

General Alabaster Saint paced in front of the tent. Mr. Shunt had insisted that they erect a space for him apart from the barracks, the mess hall, the hangar, and General Saint’s quarters.

They had done so, and just after dawn Mr. Shunt had set about his task.

Private Bailey was the first man to enter that tent. He screamed for an hour. At the end of that hour, he had been carried out, weak and exhausted. And with a new hand attached where before there had been nothing but a stump.

A hand that worked as if it were his own. Except for the dull silver stitchwork around the wrist, and the slightest clicking sound when he curled his fingers into a fist, it would pass for a living thing.

“Does it please you?” Mr. Shunt asked from the shadows inside the tent door.

“Will he survive it?”

Mr. Shunt spread his hands. “Some will not. The strong become stronger.”

“Will he survive it?” Alabaster Saint asked again.

“That one?” Shunt narrowed his eyes and lifted his head as if he could see through the walls of the barracks where Bailey rested. As if he could see all the way through the man to the nightmares beneath his skin. “Yes.” He exhaled.

“I will be pleased when all the others are done.”

General Saint turned on his bootheel and strode off to his office. “Lieutenant Foster, to me,” he barked.

Foster fell into step behind the general.

A third of the Saint’s militia had been crippled from the war. Men who held a grudge against the war made for excellent fighters against the standing rulers.

The general waited until Lieutenant Foster had shut the door before turning.

“I do not trust that man,” the Saint said, pacing. “You will see that there is a gun on him at all times.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Report to me when he has finished his task.”

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Foster turned toward the door, then hesitated. “Sir? I suggest you put Sergeant Pearson on duty.”

“Why is that, Lieutenant?”

“To allow me to be repaired next.”

Saint frowned. “Plainly, Foster.”

“I’ll let him have at my foot. By the time he’s through the men, I’ll be out of my cot to hold a gun to his head while he repairs your eye.”

“Did I say I was going to let him repair my eye, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

Foster did not move, did not shift his steady gaze. He knew Alabaster as well as any man who walked this earth. He knew just how much the Saint would sacrifice for the chance to have his vision back full again.

“Fine. Tell Pearson to stand your place,” Alabaster said. “You’ve just earned yourself a ticket to the front of the line, Foster.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Foster opened the door. The hoarse yell of the soldier under Mr. Shunt’s mercies carried on the thin morning air.

Foster tipped his head up and smiled slightly before shutting the door behind him.

General Saint finally settled behind his desk and scanned the map spread out across it. Twenty spies, and still no message. If Mr. Shunt could find Marshal Cage, then they would have no problem capturing him, nor any hesitation in destroying him. All they needed was a scent to go on.

The low rumble of an airship coming up from the south slipped past the edge of his hearing. He waited until the fans came closer, the echo off the mountains rolling so that it sounded like four ships were arriving instead of just one.

A knock on his door rapped out.

“Enter.”

A young soldier walked into the room. “Airship coming in, sir.”

“I can hear that, Private. Who is it?”

“It’s the Powderback, sir.”

That was one of Les Mullins’s ships. He’d sent Mr. Mullins out to gather information on Marshal Cage.

“See that she sets anchor. Bring Mr. Mullins to me immediately, but any remaining men with him are to stay on the ship.”

“Yes, sir.” He stepped out and Saint heard the rousing of men ready to catch lines to hold the ship steady.

He pulled out his pipe and tamped in tobacco, lighting it and waiting for Mr. Mullins to arrive. Got through a bowl before a knock on the door was quickly followed by the same private stepping through and holding the door wide.

Two soldiers carried a litter. And on that litter was Les Mullins. The parts of him outside the blanket were bandaged. The parts of him that weren’t bandaged were pale and sweat-slick.

“Do you have news for me, Mr. Mullins?” Alabaster asked.

The man swallowed hard as if trying to set his words rightways in his throat. “Marshal Cage. Found him.”

“Where?” the Saint asked.

“Stump Station. Down in the Bitterroots. Running glim.”

Alabaster leaned back in his seat and puffed on his pipe. “Glim? Wouldn’t think he had the guts for it.”

“Payment,” Les Mullins said.

“Your payment?” Alabaster sat forward, the wooden chair crackling as he shifted his weight. “Of course, Mr. Mullins.”

He strolled over to the man.

The bandages around Les Mullins’s neck and chest were brown with dried blood. His head was wrapped too, both of his eyes going black.

“It appears you have made a poor acquaintance of someone, Mr. Mullins,” Alabaster said. “Who left you in this condition?”

“Hink Cage,” Mullins growled.

Alabaster stared down at him. “Then I will give you your reward. After you bring Hink Cage to me. Until then your word is no better than a rumor.”

“My blood’s your proof. He shot me and that damn Irish broke my hand. They would have finished the job if that raft of his hadn’t been shot at.”

“Raft?”

“He’s flying the Swift. You want him, find the fastest ship in the western sky. He’ll be on it. Now, give me my damn pay.”

The general ignored the rancor of his tone. He paced to stare out the window that faced the dock where three airships waited.

He did indeed want Marshal Cage. The man had disgraced him, and stood trial against him to end his military and political career. And now Cage was working for the president, spying on the glim trade.

Marshal Cage was a dangerous man to leave wandering these hills while the Saint built his network of glim harvesters, trade posts, and militia who would join his rebellion against the east.

He did not want the president’s eyes prying into his plans.

“Unfortunately your services are inadequate and incomplete, Mr. Mullins. I sent you to bring him back with you, which you have not done.”

“Like hell,” Mullins wheezed. “You wanted to know where he’d hid himself, and now you do. I’ll take my money.”

“What you will do, Mr. Mullins, is allow my doctor to tend to you, free of charge, of course. After that, you will attend to one last mission. You will travel with six of my men and follow Marshal Cage’s trail. You will find him and bring him to me. Alive. Upon completion of that task, I will pay you. Very generously. A full glim stake in the fields above the Cascade Range.”

The Saint waited. He knew the man wouldn’t say no. Knew that glim, and the profits that could be made off it, was a powerful motivator to a man like Les Mullins.

“You drive a hard bargain,” he said.

“Take him to Mr. Shunt,” the Saint said to the soldiers. “Tell Shunt I want him on his feet by nightfall.”

The men picked up the litter and hurried out.

“Not you, Private.”

The soldier stopped at the door. “Sir?”

“Tell Captain Dirkson I want to see him.”

“Yes, sir.”

The boy left the office and the Saint returned to his desk.

The Bitterroots. Near enough there was a good chance they’d catch his trail. And if he was making a point of bragging that his ship was the fastest in the skies, surely there would be more men who would point to where he’d been seen.

It was a stroke of luck that General Saint would not let slip through his fingers.

The private was back shortly, knocking on the door.

“Come,” he said.

“Captain Dirkson, sir.” The private held the door and a man walked in past him.

Dirkson was a burly man with a square plug of a face, small eyes, and a nose broken flat into the shape of a shovel. He was a force on the battlefield, unafraid and merciless.

“Captain Dirkson,” the Saint said. “I want you to choose six men to accompany you on a mission to locate Marshal Cage and his ship, the Swift, in the Bitterroots. You will take Mr. Les Mullins with you, once the doctor has seen to his wounds.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “And when I find Marshal Cage?”

“Bring him to me. Breathing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Dirkson turned and walked out into the silence of the morning.

“Is there anything else, sir?” the private asked.

“No, Private, that is all.”

But before the private closed the door, the Saint saw Lieutenant Foster being helped out of Mr. Shunt’s tent. He looked pale. Other than the sweat that soaked his shirt, he was sharp as ever, not a stitch out of place.

He saw the general looking at him, pulled his arm away from the man who was helping him keep his feet, and stood unsupported.

Alabaster gave him a short nod, which he returned.

Good. The men would soon be repaired, and now Cage would be brought to his knees before him without Mr. Shunt’s help. That changed the game a bit.

After Mr. Shunt mended his eye, General Alabaster Saint would have him killed.