"We're just a group a' nomads tryna make a livin'. With our guns. Better question is, who the blazes are you? Ya ain't no vaquero, that's fer sure," the tall one mutters. The tiny one with crazy eyes spits into the ground, glares at you. A third, bulky, scarred, stands behind him to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. The fourth's face is brim-shadowed, you can't see it, but what ya can see is his hand on his sheathed gun. The fifth is watching from afar, tending to the group's horses.