A dour, scruffy dwarf with a beard the color of prairie dust nods awake as the stagecoach stops. At the thump of the coachman's musket his hand quickly drops to the grip of a gleaming revolver, but at the yip of delight he relaxes again. Slowly reaching for a water skin, Gurn takes a long pull from it, then climbs from the back of the coach and stretches his legs out on the open plains.
As they sit around the fire finishing their auroch steaks, Hob inquires about everyone's past, a line of questioning that doesn't seem to spur anyone to conversation. The severe halfling might as well have spoke for the lot of them when he said from one job to the next, at the small cowboys words Gurn cracks a smile and seconds the notion. "Spoke true lad, from the last job to a new one, rolling on like a tumbleweed."