His fingers dance at the grip of his gun, holstered at the moment though the twitch of the gloved digits betray the need to draw it out. Agitated, the gunslinger’s breath leaves his lungs through flared nostrils, lips pulled thin at the corners in something close to a scowl. His composure is maintained but only just, tethered to the leer from beneath the wide brim of his hat.

‘Step outta line, an’ I’ll gun ya down.’