Lanterns Over Bitterstone

The telegraph office smelled of oil, tobacco, and sun-baked pine. June Calhoun kept the window cracked to the platform because the rails spoke in a language the town trusted: a distant metallic sigh, the staccato rat-a-tat of a freight calling for crew, the hollow thump when a boxcar shifted its heart. Her thumb knew the weight of the key by the grain of the wood; it had learned to move before she thought, to make long, honest dashes and quick, impatient dots. Outside, the main street of Bitterstone ran like a tired ribbon—storefronts shaded by porches, a water trough where horses cursed the heat, a saloon whose doors always promised trouble and, sometimes, music.

Finn burst in with flour on his cheek and the sort of grin boys carried when they'd stolen laughter from the day. He came up to the counter, dropped a coil of copper that made a metallic whisper against the planks. 'Found it by the old tower,' he said, voice all elbows and bravado. 'Almost as good as a treasure.'

June pinched the bridge of her nose and let a breath go. 'Treasure's only good if it keeps the trains running safe, Finn. Not if it makes 'em sing wrong.' She set her fingers back to the key and tapped: S. Marlow needs bearings. Freight reply expected. A simple line—the kind that kept the general store from feeding dust to customers, the kind that kept the doctor from riding out blindfolded.

The town liked to think the telegraph was between one heartbeat and the next; without it the distance multiplied. People came to her for letters, for news, for gossip that sounded better when garlanded by signals. In the corner a jar of coins clinked—payment for calls and a little more for bringing bad news without extra charge. June's hands smelled faintly of kerosene and coffee. Her hair was tied where no soft ribbon would sit; practicality had a shape and June fit into it like a glove.

Talk of Welles had been like smoke for weeks: his men buying right-of-way, his dam drawing a line on the river that made men in Bitterstone count their barrels and their prayers. There were letters on the counter with the baron's seal; a lawyer's spidery handwriting promising 'negotiation.' No one wanted to sign. Welles had the sort of mouth that smiled like a ledger and the sort of patience that starved people into bargains.

A clatter came from Marlow's and then a heavy step at the door. Marshal Kincaid stood framed for a long moment, hat in hand, the badge a dull coin at his chest. He looked at June and then at the wire. 'Morning, Miss Calhoun,' he said. His voice had been in offices and under tents; it carried the ease of a man used to speaking for others. 'Been talk. Welles's men seen near the upper towers.'

June stopped the key mid-tap. The strip of paper lay like a trailing tendon between her fingers. Outside, the horizon shimmered; heat made the rails into bending mirrors and promises into illusions. Finn pushed the copper coil toward her and, with a seriousness sudden and strange for his age, said, 'Do you think they could cut our line, June?'

She looked at the coil, at the horizon, at the man who had the law's mark. The telegraph was more than wire and wood. It was the town's signal to the world. Taking it meant taking voice. Taking voice meant taking the last thin safety the people of Bitterstone had. June slid the strip of paper into the spool and answered with a motion she felt as much as said: 'Then we won't let them.'

It was the sort of vow people made when they felt the wind change. It was the sort of vow that could be tested by a single night.