S.M. MARSHALL'S TOMBSTONE

Somewhere in Western Kansas, things go horribly wrong. It starts with a cry in the night — someone in the back of the wagon calls out in the darkness, then falls eerily silent.

By sunrise, it’s clear that cholera is raging through your wagon train. The caravan stops along the guidepath.

You have a twinge of cramping in your stomach, but you’re not nearly feeling the worst effects. Nearly everyone loses control of their bowels at once, alternately shaking with cold and burning with fever.

Men vomit out the back of the wagon; women scream and pray. Those who are not dying dig graves on either side of the river.

Marshall’s seeing the worst of it, and his time is running short. He grabs you by the sleeve of your jacket.

“Bury me in a high spot,” he whispers. “Bury me high, and point me east, so I can face my wife and my home.”

You try to reassure him, but his color fades fast. His shaking has stopped, and his eyes glaze over.

“Bury me facing Kentucky,” he pleads. His chest stops moving.

You look around and spot a small hilltop, and you head toward it with a shovel.

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