Johnathan had dropped a bill on the table and sat down before his meal when shots rang out from across the street. He dropped under the table and grabbed his rifle. Somehow, it seems unlikely this is a coincidence.
There were no raised voices, just the quiet groaning of the saloon doors and the man bleeding behind them. Johnathan stood in the suddenly silent cafe and walked to the door, popping it open with his foot and peering out. A man was walking away from the scene, casual as could be, with a little smoke still rising from his holster. Johnathan shrugged and shut the door, lowering his rifle as he did so. Just a little fight. Relax, take it easy, the fight isn't on yet.
The coppery stench of blood was in his nostrils, though, and that just about ruined his appetite. He dropped a bill on the table and exited the cafe. He leaned against the wall outside the cafe, unloading and reloading his revolver, while he whistled a quiet tune. If I were a murderous, thieving bandit, where would I be hiding?
That's the problem with places like this - they treat all strangers the same. Sometimes they treat 'em nice, sometimes not so nice, but the treatment always seems to be universal. No point in asking local law, they seem to be rather incompetent, given the lack of any response to that little shootout.
He finished reloading again and rose up. Maybe something would fall into his lap. Sometimes, you just got lucky.