D’Artois pulls Dakota aside as the shopkeeper heads into the storeroom for a bottle of his finest whiskey. Uncharacteristically nervous, he smiles and takes off his hat.
“I been thinking about this trip, and I’ve decided it just doesn’t suit me. I’d appreciate if you could give the Marshal back his advance for me, and give him my apologies. There’s a coach here that can take me back to San Francisco, and I think I’ll take it. No hard feelings, right, Dakota?”
The gambler places his wide hat back onto his head and tips it at the cowpoke in a silent farewell. He tosses the remnants of the Marshal’s advance into Dakota’s waiting hand and makes his way out of the establishment, whistling an upbeat tune.