Perhaps there was a time when someone might have known. But that time had come and gone. His family had known, but now they were gone also. In the War Between the States someone had slapped him with a nickname and it had stuck. It was a good name, characteristic of his job, and he carried it with pride. Even though he had never fought the enemy, by sword or by gun, he knew he had served his country as well as those who did. Twenty years after the war and getting on in years, he came west to the Montana Territory to find and live out his twilight years with his daughter, her husband and his two grandchildren. What he found was their graves. Murdered by a ruthless land grabbing rancher who would stop at nothing to become the biggest and most powerful man in Montana. But this rich and powerful man never counted on a man such as the one he was about to encounter. For a dozen years he had trampled anything and anyone who had gotten in his way, be it legal or otherwise. The idea of being Montana's first governor, if and when Montana became a state, danced in his head. He was big, he was powerful and he was mean. Just what a frontier state would need in a governor. He had it made. That is, until one man stepped between him and the governor's mansion. A man called Trapper.