Nothing here but us chickens!

A lonely isolated camp, a harmonica plays steadily, the soft glow of a small fire, a tall skinny cook stands outside a tent, his fingers gracefully moving across the harmonica, as it goes back and forth across his thin lips. An open tent opposite, faint light highlighting a gun as it polks out of the doorway. Skinny keeps playing, watching. Eyes bulging. The smug sound of the one threatening whistling.

Long ago a group of men in charge of the country made some bad decisions, got doublecrossed and ended up causing the people to herald their own army. I say herald, it consisted of part drunken angry chavs, and the rest well were too thick or lazy to know or care what was going on...
So here things stood, as the cook played like the clappers while the gun continued to point at him. Elias liked to keep things in order and sometimes that needed perfound force, in the shape of old gerty, his prized gun. How quiet and peaceful the camp was tonight!