“Only Carrollton?” His shoulders dropped. “That’s no more’n eight miles out of New Orleans. By the Shadow of Death, how will I get us all the way to Natchez if I’m already this beat?” His eyes narrowed, making the scars pucker. “Years o’ thankless work, Striker. That’s what engineering is. It’s years of no gratitude. Why, Cochran might kill me yet.” Then he shambled to the door, where a breeze licked in. “Yep, if we have to keep this pace, Cochran might just kill me yet.”
It wasn’t often that Murry elicited my pity. The man was spiteful and lazy, and he’d done me a bad turn last week—lying to Cochran about me and Cass. But there was no denying that Murry had once been a great engineer. Nor denying that he’d had more than his fair share of suffering in an engine room. And no denying that the life of an engineer was as thankless as they come.
With a sigh I shifted my attention back to the engines. Even with no change in speed, I had to keep an eye on all the gauges and valves, had to keep the steam pressure from building up. . . .
And had to keep from dwelling on a short-tempered, gorgeous girl four stories up who’d let me kiss her . . . and who had kissed me back even harder.
CHAPTER FIVE
At midnight the blond, pink-faced Second Engineer Schultz came to relieve me. For half a moment I considered offering to take Murry’s watch—let the old man have a break.
But then he opened his mouth, and I remembered how much I hated him. And why.
“Blast you, Striker,” he snarled. “You ought to take my watch. You’re a quarter of my age, and you’re barely even tired.”
“I already did two shifts today, Murry.” I inspected my fingernails as if I wasn’t about to collapse from exhaustion.
“A third won’t kill you.”
“And a second won’t kill you either.” I scowled. “I did most of the work on the last watch, so you should be dandy for only a half shift more.” I turned to Schultz, bobbing my head. “See you in three hours.” Then I spun on my heel and ambled—as jauntily as I could—toward the door.
“Stupid dog of a striker,” Murry snapped after me. “That’s what you are. A piece of crap off the bottom of my . . .”
His words were lost in the thrum of the engine, and as I sauntered through the door, I let out a bright whistle—just so he’d know I was completely unperturbed.
Of course, once I knew Murry couldn’t see me anymore, I gave an exhausted groan and my posture wilted in half. I shuffled down the hall and toward the boat’s bow. Each step brought me closer to the blazing furnaces and chanting firemen. These men were fresh, having just started their watch. Though that didn’t keep them from flinching every time a ghost drifted by.
“Half-twain, half-twain, half-twain!” The singsong bellow of the first mate, Barnes, grew louder and louder until, just as I rounded the front of the ship to aim for the stairs, I caught sight of the hunched old man—not that he bothered acknowledging me. His attention was focused on the weighted leather rope that measured the Mississippi’s depth. The lead line.
“Half-twain, half-twain!” his reedy voice carried up to the pilothouse. “Half-twain, mark twain! Mark twain, mark twain, no bottom!”
Those were the magic words for a pilot—the chance to breathe for a bit with no risk of running aground. I would wager my soul that Cass had just made one of her sly, private grins. My favorite kind.
“No bottom, no bottom!” Barnes continued, and I shambled the rest of the way to the stairs. But then gooseflesh prickled on my arms and neck. I made the mistake of looking back.
A mangled girl in a shredded frock followed behind me. “Blood,” she hissed at me . . . but in the factory guard’s voice. It transported me back to Philadelphia. “You killed me.” The image of him flashed through my mind. His bright red uniform blackened with blood . . . blood I had spilled all over the dy***ite factory’s floor . . .
I ground my teeth. I was not gonna think of him now, goddammit, and not ever.
I resumed my ascent until at last I staggered onto the Texas Deck. But then footsteps clicked ahead of me, and a soft voice called out, “Daniel Sheridan?”
My head whipped up. Coming toward me was a Chinese boy in navy and red livery.
I gawked—it couldn’t be . . . Could it? Was this the boy—no, girl who’d cheated me last night?
Judging by the smug grin on her face and the swagger in her step, it was the same kid. Pure, boiling fury surged through me. “You!” I lunged for her throat, but before I had gone two steps, the world flipped before my eyes.
And pain—there was a lot of pain in my wrist. Somehow she had yanked my hand behind my back . . . and then pulled the floor straight up to my eyes.
I was trapped on my stomach, and dammit if I didn’t want to really destroy this girl now.
He—no, she shoved her knee into my ribs. “You got a problem with me?” she asked.
“You bet I do.” I groaned. “What are you doing on the Sadie—” my wrist gave a sickening crack. A howl broke through my lips.
“I’m working,” she answered calmly.
“As what?” I wheezed. “At being a son of bi—” The pain doubled, and sparks burst in my eyes. But I wasn’t about to back down because of a little pain. “Because if so,” I squeaked out, “you’re a real crack shot at it.”