In the winter of 1888, Dana Reynolds has no reason to believe in anything, until he runs afoul of Wovoka. Dana doesn’t believe in Truth. Telling the truth was what lost him his job back at the Chronicle in San Francisco. Well, that and drinking a little too much. In Nevada he’s learning that Indian agents can be as crooked as politicians. Just asking a few too many questions around here earned him a beating and a cracked rib. Now he was supposed to report on that so-called Paiute prophet, Wovoka, the Woodcutter. The only nice thing about Greenfield, Nevada was Charlene, the telegraph operator. Seems like even she’s gullible enough to fall for the Woodcutter’s line. He’s obviously another fake, as much a fake as Dana himself. Or is he?

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