The parched panoramas and immortal haze that cover the dreary town of Presbyterian Church creates a mood quite unlike any other. Cold, wet, and unbelievably gloomy, it appears in faded washes like a tea-stained photograph from long ago, its edges torn and its center falling away into the inscrutable fog of the past. Within the antiquated picture are characters so human and so very problematic, people fated for the dooms they must be afforded in a time and place that accepts no prosperity without an unavoidable and dangerous cost. The vision of the West here is not sunny and heroic, but mournful, lugubrious, and without concession, a sad music box that plays its stolid tune until it can play no more, until the delusions of its contents are fully made clear and the last hush of the wintry day can go out, ever so quietly, into the lonely abyss.