Prologue
Oak Grove, Kansas, 1878
Raymond Wolf rammed the oil-soaked cloth down the rifle’s barrel for one last coating, making sure the path was smooth and slippery without any catches. It had to be perfect if it was to be his best friend’s wedding present.
The long swab pressed against the farthest end of the shaft, and at the same moment, something squeezed in Wolf’s chest. An invisible weight descended, as if the very air pressed down on him. Maybe he had been working too hard. He’d had that large order to finish for Dodge City last week, which demanded all of his time. This was the first chance he’d had to work on Doug’s rifle.
The sensation grew stronger. Doug’s face filled his mind. He set the rifle barrel on his workbench and clutched the turquoise stone at his neck. The small workshop, the snow falling outside the front window, all faded away into a gray mist. Then his friend’s face faded too. Something had happened.
“Wolf?” Jackson Miller spoke from the doorway, breaking into the strange fog. Miller stepped inside quickly, followed by another man—a stranger—and shut the door. “Got a man here looking for you.”
Wolf released his grip on the stone and struggled to shake off the premonition. He stood and backed away from his work area, staring at the hammer, trigger guard and bow drill that lay on the table. Absent only a moment ago, now the strong scent of oil and varnish filled the air once more.
Miller stepped farther into the room and removed his flat cap. “Are you all right?”
Wolf looked up, still slightly dazed. “Miller,” he said, acknowledging his neighbor.
Then his thoughts cleared, and he noticed the short, pudgy man in a gray suit peering around Miller’s shoulder. Wolf wiped the oil from his hands on an old rag and slowly removed his shop apron, hanging it from its neck loop on the peg beside the window. He turned back to the two men. “What can I do for you?”
“Raymond Wolf?” the stranger asked, his gaze dubious.
Outsiders always took a moment to adjust to his looks. Confusion happened first, quickly followed by suspicion, and then the lingering unspoken question: Why wasn’t he on a reservation with the rest of his tribe? And more than that—was he dangerous? Wolf counted it ironic that along with his appearance, the profession he had fallen into—gunsmithing—also made them nervous. It was ironic and, if he was truthful, satisfying.
“Excuse me. My name is Franklin Masters.
