They left Kansas sometime in late spring. The mingle of well-wishers, a mere half dozen sullen looking townsfolk, waved their goodbyes. Amongst them, old Art Dalton who had lectured Janus that he would be taking his family into “the very cauldron of Hell”, given the dread stories which made their way back and chilled the hearts of even the most stalwart. He doffed his hat. Chewing on his usual wad of tobacco, he leaned to his left and spat a long stream of juice into the ground. “Some of those who went out West were eaten by their own kin,” he’d said on their last night, both huddled together in a dismal saloon, cupping hot coffee laced with whisky.
“We have enough supplies to last us three months,” said Janus, not sure if he was convincing his friend or himself. “We’ll be fine. Joel is a
