Sundance pauses with his hand cradling the butt of his six-shooter, and casts a suspicious glance up at the woman in front of him. She's smiling, which he don't trust, and she's wearing some kind of floaty, shapeless combinations of fabrics that look about as stylish to his eye as a potato sack.

He ain't picky or nothing, but when it comes to ladies' fashions, he likes 'em trim, and stylish, and neat, and simple. And good plain colors.

He sucks on his teeth, weighing his options, then shrugs it all off again, wary gaze loosening to something almost like disinterest, as he glances back casually over the room behind them. "Information."