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It's 1885, and the Crooked Spur is roaring: the railroad's men are in town with a contract, the silver crowd is buying rounds, and half the territory is holding cards it can't cover. Then a shot (or was it?) and somebody hits the sawdust for good. The saloon keeper, the marshal, the card sharp with one ace too many: every soul in the Junction had a stake tonight, and one of them just cashed it in blood. Bar the doors and pour another. Nobody rides out till this is settled.
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Welcome to Copperhead Junction, 1885: a town younger than its oldest debt, built fast on a silver strike and held together by the Crooked Spur, which serves as courthouse, bank, and theater all at once. Tonight the railroad decides whether the Junction becomes permanent or becomes a ghost town, and everyone in the room can feel which way the money is leaning. Speak the lingo: “reckon” carries a sentence, a “tinhorn” is a fake gambler, “red-eye” is the house whiskey, the “assay” is what your claim is really worth, and “the spur” means the railroad branch and the saloon both (the Junction enjoys the confusion). Etiquette: guns get checked at the long bar, you never sit with your back to the doors, and calling a man a cheat is a formal declaration with a dress code.
Count your guests only — not yourself, anywhere from 6 to 32. Want to play too? There's an option below once you pick a number.