Dan nods. "You'd best listen to him," he agrees, before he reaches for the nearest article of clothing -- the Pinkerton near the coach has a long jacket, and Dan rips a few strips of the cloth and ties that blown knee into some idea of order to slow the bleeding. "Because even I know not to cross Ben Wade."

A nod at Ben.

"Now. Up," he orders.

Butterfield listens -- and pulls himself up with Dan's help, only groaning a little as he bites his lip -- and then he leans against the coach while Dan fetches one of the horses from the team, which are nervously pacing a few hundred yards down the wash, still confused as all hell.

When he's back, Dan helps shove him up into the saddle and then hands him the reins, and points to the south, down the canyon.

"You should be on your way, now. Don't want your boys to worry about the coach comin' in behind schedule, after all. Ain't that right, Ben?"

Except instead of a coach it'll be a wounded coach owner with one hell of a story to tell.

Details, details.