Settlement: WOLF CROSSING

Chapter 4: The Napkin

Duncan kept his hands flat on the scarred tabletop, fingers splayed like he was holding the wagon reins. The folded square of linen sat between his plate and the salt cellar, innocent as a communion wafer. Dove had already retreated to the kitchen hatch, her apron strings flicking once before the door swung shut.

Rachel forked a piece of potato, eyes on her food, but Duncan saw the pulse at her throat jump.

“Eat slow,” he murmured. “We’ve got maybe three minutes before someone wonders why I’m staring at a napkin like it owes me money.”

She gave the smallest nod.

Duncan unfolded the cloth with the same care he used to check a gelding’s shoe for stones. Inside lay a scrap of onion-skin paper no bigger than a tag card, edges singed as if it had been torn from a ledger and held over a candle.

Three words in Dove’s cramped hand:

Corral. Midnight. Alone.

Below them, a charcoal sketch: a wolf’s head wearing a civil-patrol badge.

Rachel’s fork stilled. “That’s Trey’s mark.”

Duncan refolded the napkin, slid it into his vest pocket, and forced a bite of ham. Grease and salt exploded across his tongue, but he tasted iron.

“Could be a trap,” he said.

“Could be Trey’s finally ready to talk.”

A shadow crossed the table. Bamm himself — broad as a barn door, apron stained with a decade of gravy, loomed with the coffeepot. Steam curled between them like a question.

“Refill?” Bamm rumbled.

Duncan slid his cup forward. “Appreciate it.”

Bamm poured, eyes flicking to the empty napkin spot, then to Duncan’s pocket. A twitch at the corner of the man’s mouth (gone so fast Duncan might have imagined it).

When Bamm moved on, Rachel whispered, “He saw.”

“Maybe. Maybe he always sees.” Duncan wiped his mouth, buying time. “Either way, midnight’s a long way off. I’ve got to unload the northbound crates before curfew or Solomon will have my hide for kindling.”

Rachel’s gaze cut to the window. Sunlight slanted low across the thoroughfare; oil lamps were already being lit. “Curfew’s at nine. You’ll never make the corral by midnight if you’re hauling lumber.”

“I’ll manage.” He pushed his plate away half-finished. Appetite had fled with the note. “Question is, do we trust Dove enough to walk into whatever’s waiting?”

Rachel’s fingers worried the edge of her sleeve. “Dove’s been my shadow since we were girls stealing biscuits from Freedom’s cooling rack. If she says midnight, she’s got a reason.”

Duncan stood, dropped two ration tokens on the table (more than the meal cost, insurance against curious eyes). “Then I’ll be there. You stay inside the Trading Post after dark. Knotts has been sniffing around your ledgers like a hound on blood.”

She caught his wrist. Her grip was stronger than he expected. “If Trey’s in deep, I’m not hiding behind counters while you ride into it.”

“Rachel—”

“No.” The word cracked like a whip. “This is my brother. My settlement. My fight.”

Duncan looked down at her hand on his skin, felt the callus on her thumb from years of tallying trades. Something warm and dangerous uncoiled in his chest.

“Fine,” he said. “But we do it smart. I’ll leave the wagon at Donal’s, circle back on foot. You bring the ledger (the real one). If this is about numbers, we’ll need proof.”

Her eyes searched his. “And if it’s about guns?”

“Then we’ll need more than proof.”

They stepped outside into the orange hush of late afternoon. The thoroughfare bustled: a goat bleated, a child chased a hoop, two nomads argued over a sack of salt. Normal noises, but Duncan’s skin prickled.

He scanned rooftops (nothing). Scanned faces (nothing he could name). Still, the feeling clung like trail dust.

At the corral, Donal waved from the sawmill gate, wiping sweat with a rag the color of old blood. “Gates! Got your stall ready. Brought any surprises?”

Duncan forced a grin. “Just cacao and headaches.”

Donal laughed, but his eyes flicked to Rachel, then to Duncan’s pocket.

He knows something, Duncan thought. Or suspects.

He unhitched the geldings, handed the reins to a stable boy, and hefted the first crate bound for The Divide. The wood was heavier than it should be. He set it down, pried the lid a finger’s breadth.

Inside: not wool or cotton.

Rifles. Six of them, oiled and nested in straw.

Stamped on each stock: CP PROPERTY – DO NOT REMOVE.

Rachel’s sharp intake of breath told him she’d seen.

Duncan slammed the lid, nails screeching. “Donal!”

The sawmill owner ambled over, thumbs hooked in his suspenders. “Problem?”

“These crates were sealed in Erie City. You open them?”

Donal’s face went still. “Civil Patrol dropped them off two nights ago. Said they were ‘machine parts.’ Told me to keep quiet or lose my water rights.”

Rachel’s voice was ice. “You let Republic guns sit in my settlement?”

“Wasn’t given a choice, Miss Dixon.” Donal’s gaze slid to the thoroughfare where a patrol wagon rolled past, Knotts at the reins. “They’re counting heads. Anyone asks questions gets a one-way ticket to the Blight.”

Duncan’s mind raced. Rifles meant a raid. Midnight meant a signal. The wolf’s head on the note — Trey wasn’t just talking rebellion. He was arming it).

He nailed the lid shut with the heel of his boot. “We move these tonight. Before curfew. Into the old fairground cellars.”

Donal swallowed. “That’s treason.”

“So is harboring stolen Republic weapons,” Rachel snapped. “Help us or explain to Knotts why his guns are missing.”

The sawmill owner looked suddenly old. “After dark. I’ll bring the mule cart.”

Duncan clapped his shoulder (thanks and warning in one). “Midnight, then.”

As Donal walked away, Rachel whispered, “We’re in over our heads.”

Duncan watched the patrol wagon disappear around the bend. “We were in the minute Dove passed that note.”

The sun slipped behind the trees, bleeding red across the sky. Somewhere in the settlement, a bell tolled eight. One hour to curfew. Four until midnight.

Duncan lifted the rifle crate, muscles screaming. “Let’s get to work.”

He didn’t see the figure on the Trading Post roof — hooded, motionless, a glint of glass in the eye.

Didn’t hear the soft click of a shutter as the watcher lowered a spyglass and smiled.

Midnight was coming.

And Wolf Crossing was already surrounded.