He likes her, which is probably a stupid thing to do, considering, but he likes the way she pushes her shoulders back and her chin up and strides up to that bartop like she's planning on robbing it. Clearly, she's someone to be reckoned with, and that's the kind of quality Sundance can really appreciate in an acquaintance, feminine or not.

She's got more bluster and brass than Butch, but it takes all kinds, he knows that, so he just sidles up next to her and leans on the bar, allowing himself to sink into the background, a bit.

Seems she's got the talking covered, and that's kind of a relief. All he'd be able to do right now is flash the six-shooter at his side, and he's got this itching, nagging sensation of a feeling that wouldn't be the brightest idea he's ever had.

She's so small he can look right over her head at the woman tending the bar, leveling an unblinking pale blue gaze at her, while she glances back a little more curiously each time, as she pours some sort of drink and says something Sundance can't hear.

He probably shouldn't set his gun on the bar top, either. Too bad.