John England is, on the surface, a quiet man these days as the Old West grows older, and the White Man continues to push the Indians off their lands.

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From his humble beginnings as an outcast orphan in an Indian tribe to his reentry into White society, one can trace his life’s trajectory, straight as an arrow, from famed portrait artist to the founder of an orphanage.

However, John is not merely a talented painter or a man who gives foundlings a place to rest, a typical rags-to-riches story worthy of American legend. He is also a man who gives a final resting place to those he kills under contract. In the shadow of the vulture’s wings and underneath the cold moon’s stare, John’s other name is a whispered obscenity in both White and Indian worlds: The Reaper.

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With a taste for murder and infamy, John has never fully retired. There is always a way to call on The Reaper, though he may not answer. Death has his own reasons, and those of his clients are merely incidental. The Reaper is a bullet that never misses, unless he chooses differently.