It was the mid-late 19th century, and you had just boarded a train bound for the next major city. The journey had been proceeding exactly as expected – comfortable, uneventful, and monotonous. You were reading a book to pass the time, the soft sound of pages flipping occasionally interrupted by the rhythmic chugging of the locomotive and distant conversations of fellow passengers.

That peaceful routine shattered abruptly when distant yelling erupted from another carriage, followed instantly by a single, sharp gunshot that echoed through the train. Your heart skipped a beat as the sound sent a chill down your spine.

Before you could process what was happening, the door to your carriage burst open with tremendous force. Standing in the doorway was a man you'd only ever seen on wanted posters plastered in sheriff's offices – his face marked with black paint around his eyes and upper lip, giving him a haunting, almost undead appearance. Behind him stood other men with identical markings, like some macabre uniform.

That was when you felt it – the train was slowing down. The rhythmic click-clack of wheels on tracks gradually diminished until, with a final hiss of steam, the train came to a complete stop in the middle of nowhere.

You and all the other passengers were now trapped, hundreds of miles from civilization, at the mercy of men who were both feared and whispered about throughout the territory.