When Quinn tapped the recorder, a clock filled the display. Morning had slipped away, leaving only what came next.

QUINN: “It’s high noon, and high time to get moving.”

There was no response. None was needed. They all knew their roles.

Each group departed, heading in different directions. The groundhogs, led by Beauregard, traveled east, destined to join fellow groundhogs burrowed deep in the tunnels of Beaver County. Scout Skunk headed, just as he had promised, toward Raccoon Creek, while Abigail turned, crossed the street, and headed to her closest and most trusted neighbor.

Now, let us follow our investigative porcupine and clever weasel as they meet a distant relative of Brenston, the ancient beaver who once traveled with the skunks from Westphalia in search of a new land, arriving quite by accident in the Americas. Brenston, it turns out, was Wiley’s great-grandfather… to the fifteenth power of greats.

Guided by the old map, Quinn and Wiley reached one of the VIP rivers marked on the ancient parchment—the one calling for double dams, located in the heart of Beaver County. Quinn arrived at the riverbank first and, after adjusting the fedora’s brim, spent several quiet minutes surveying the scene before tapping the paw recorder, now ready but silent.

Wiley followed close behind, tail flicking as he took in the beavers’ handiwork. The lodge was solid with no wasted branches or careless gaps. The water divided and rejoined, shaped by the careful design of expert water engineers. Wiley nodded to Quinn, noting this was good work and these were the right builders.

Quinn watched as Wiley smoothed his whiskers before trotting down the bank toward the beavers below.

Wiley slowed his pace. Below them, the riverbank hummed with activity. Beavers were hauling branches, trimming bark, and reinforcing joints with precision. But Wiley wasn’t watching the work; he was watching the workers.

One beaver stood slightly apart. Although not the largest in the lodge, he was the one others glanced toward before acting. When a branch slipped, it was that beaver who signaled where to set it. When the current pushed too hard, it was that beaver who decided what needed reworking. Wiley’s whiskers twitched as he thought to himself, “There you are!” Only then did Wiley straighten, step forward, and begin to speak.

It was then that Quinn’s paw tightened around the recorder and began tapping the following conversation …

WILEY: “Good day to you, name’s Wiley Weasel. I’m hoping you can point me to whoever keeps this fine stretch of river behaving itself.”

BRACKEN: “That’d be me, name’s Bracken. And the river behaves because we make it.”

WILEY: “So I see. Smart placement. Strong bind. You’ve got the flow doing exactly what you want it to do.”

As leader of this lodge, Bracken stood squarely in front of Wiley with chest puffed out, obviously proud of the excellent work recognized by Wiley.

BRACKEN: “So what brings you down this way?”

Wiley lowered his voice, not secretive, just serious.

WILEY: “Upstream, where the river tightens and picks up speed, something long and hollow has been laid beneath the riverbed. It feeds on steady flow and quiet ground, and it does not belong there.”

BRACKEN: “Yup, we’ve felt it.”

WILEY: “Of course you have. You’re beavers. You feel changes in the river before anyone else does.”

The exchange between Wiley and Bracken began to draw the attention of Bracken’s crew. A few beavers drifted closer, pausing in their work to listen.

WILEY: “That thing under the river only works if everything stays steady.”

BRACKEN: “Wadya mean?”

WILEY: “Beneath the river, the pipeline runs in a straight, rigid line. It’s drilled deep below the riverbed as if the river itself were fixed in place. But rivers are never fixed. They curve, wander, and shift over time. When the riverbed moves or pressure changes inside the pipe, methane can escape, and when methane escapes, fire is never far behind.”

BRACKEN: “We’ve heard about the fires down there. Always figured that place brought trouble on itself. Didn’t know it was being fed from under our water. So what can we do?”

Quinn angled the recorder toward Bracken. THIS was the moment.

WILEY: “Here’s how you can help. The stretch upstream narrows just enough. If you build a dam there, it wouldn’t just slow the river, it would change the pressure, shift the bed, and make that buried thing unstable.”

Bracken turned to his crew. Quinn caught the low thump of tails on mud as the beavers shifted closer.

BRACKEN:  “You’re talking about damming up the works.”

WILEY: “I am. Because rivers were never meant to serve pipes. If you dam that stretch and break the even flow, the pressure changes, the ground shifts—and that pipeline can’t do its job. No methane gets through to Hell’s Bells.”

A low murmur passed through the crew. No one disagreed. The beavers nodded to one another, already thinking through placements and angles. Their tails thumped louder, in unanimous agreement

BRACKEN: “Pick your spots. We’ll start tonight.”

Quinn held the recorder steady as Bracken spoke, sealing the moment. Meeting Wiley’s knowing glance, they both knew the beavers were convinced.

The beavers turned back to the river, focusing on water and flow, to dangers they well understood. They did not yet know about the land men who would come, or what they planned to do to protect their Black Snake. But Quinn and Wiley did.

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