1867, Arizona Territory. Caleb digs in his spurs, encouraging his exhausted horse to crest the final hill. He's earned a magnificent vista overlooking the parched territorial land. The town, his destination, is yet a speck on the horizon but it's within sight. It's been a week since the telegraph reported the Mint plates stolen from their coach as they were in transit to California. Somewhere on this sun-blasted plain, dotted with craggy outcrops and the odd speck of greenery clinging tenuously to life, outlaws had the means to print their own greenbacks. And thus, the Secret Service had dispatched Caleb to hunt them down. He still scoffed at the twist of fate and coincidence that had lead to him of all people taking on a life of defending the integrity of bank notes with "that bastard" Lincoln's face on them. As his horse navigated its way down the gentle slope,