[h3][center]Mistihkoman[/center][/h3]

The First Nations man sat looking out the window, running his fingers down his braid. He could hear that woman trying to be preachy, and trying to get the last word in, but he paid it little mind. It was of no import.

Mistihkoman took some time to look about the passenger car. his eyes slipping over the people, examining them. He hummed softly spotting the two of the scruffier men, dirty, slightly unwashed. He wondered about them. The rest of the passengers would be of no worry he figured.

And then the shooting started. He looked out the windows, "Outlaws." He growled out. Then grabbed his bow, quiver of arrows and his gun-stock club. Tying the quiver to his back and slinging the bow over one shoulder, "The Wild West..." He growls, and starts towards the front of the passenger car, holding in his hands the gun-stock club. He calls to the others, "If they try to board at the front of the car I'll do my best to stop them." Oh he did not sound happy, "Two fights in the span of two days. I'm going to take someone's scalp for this." He reaches into his vest to thumb the bone handle of his large knife.