Red Dalton leaned his back against the bar and looked around the saloon with a frown on his face. The whiskey glass in his right hand was half empty and soon completely empty as the man gulped down the liquor and turned to stare outside of the swinging doors. He had noticed the Sheriff and his deputy coming towards the saloon from the window after the drunkard had scurried away. No doubt the man had alerted the Sheriff after the incident with a Bowie knife. It wasn't much of a shock to him, but he had to stay undetected as a US Marshal until he had managed to find out enough of the town's activities. As the swinging doors swung open, Red placed the glass down on the bar and the bartender began to take the mirror off the wall as well as taking the liquor bottles off the shelves in order to protect them from the bullets that he thought were going to fly about soon. Once this was noticed, several patrons near Red scurried away and some even rushed out the door due to this.
The stetson tilted forwards blocked the Sheriff's view at the eyes of the gunslinger, but the smirk he had was enough to tell the hand of law that he was ready to draw whenever they needed him to. In all truth, Red knew he could mange to shoot the Sheriff, but not the deputy. That's why he wished for someone, anyone, to stop this madness by stepping in. Over at the other side of the road, Red could see one of the local morticians waiting impatiently with a tape measure for the scene to get done with.
As the Sheriff cleared his throat, Red leaned off the bar and took a step forwards, his spurs jingling lightly in the now mostly silent saloon. The smirk at no point ceased from stretching his lips and his thumbs were slipped under his belt in order to give a short distance for drawing his revolvers.