Indian Territory, 1875. The Indian's woman was standing at the edge of the cornfield when she shot me. Moments before, I had placed the barrel of my Peacemaker just behind the Indian's ear. The press of cold steel seemed to do little to disturb his drunken sleep. He smelled like the bottom of a whiskey barrel. That, and wild onions. Strike a match, I figured we'd both go up in flames. The Indian's name was Lucky Baker. But it wasn't the Indian I was after. It was a white man, name of Caddo Pierce.