Ben quirks an eyebrow as he sits in his saddle. He looks deceptively relaxed, but his pistol never wavers, locked on the area just to the left of the gleaming top button on Butterfield's fine pinstriped vest.

"Funny, how you boys keep takin' care of me, and I keep showin' right back up."

A beat, just to make Butterfield sweat a little more in the warm Arizona air.

"Think I had a key to the place."

Or I missed my train.