David shuts up.
The Pinkerton agent nods, and heads out of his way to contact the conductor.
A minute passes, and the train starts to move again, slowly. Outside, everyone may see the bandit horses galloping away, some feeding on the grass, while dead bandits lay in the grass. Inside the cars, the smell of smoke fills the air, and blood is splattered across where the good doctor tends Mr. Dowell.
The Victorian woman pipes up. "You are all fools. Should have left us with the gold. Not good sticking yourself in other's business."
"Yeah," laughs the goatee bandit. "Mr. Dowell will be in worse shape if he lives. Haha!"