The sun did not set over Oakhaven; it burned out, bleeding a heavy, copper-tinted red across the jagged edges of the Blackwood Ridge.
Caleb Vance leaned against the weathered porch rail of the dry-goods store, adjusting his beaten leather Stetson. The air smelled of dry dirt, horse sweat, and the faint, sulfurous tang of black powder. It was an ordinary, suffocating Tuesday in 1874—until the sky split open.
It wasn't lightning. Lightning made noise. This was a silent, blinding fracture of violet light that tore across the horizon, freezing the dust motes in the air.
Caleb reached for the Colt revolver at his hip out of pure instinct, but his fingers froze an inch from the wood grip. Time dropped away. The sound of chatter from the saloon across the street vanished. The rhythmic thrum of crickets stopped cold.
Then, a translucent box flared into existence directly in front of his eyes.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
