Butterfield is a little bit smug, underneath the wary fear in his voice.

"More than you can handle."

Way more.

Dan's already moved to the coach and grabbed the rifle from the fallen Pinkerton agent, checked the chamber, and taken up a stance near the wooden frame where he can duck for cover if he has to.

"Ben," he says. "Why don't you bring Mr. Butterfield around here so he don't get caught up in the crossfire?"

At the sound of that voice, Butterfield turns away from Ben Wade and his eyes travel to Dan.

Who's smirking at him.

"Afternoon," Dan tips his hat in the man's direction, before he looks back up a the cloud of dust coming down the canyon.

bang

The slug buries itself in the coach with a dull thud, a few inches from Dan's head.

He doesn't flinch.