Buckle pulled his Colt Model 1860 New Army from its holster and gave it a look up and down, as the others talked. It had served him well his entire life; weighty and solid, it smelled pungently of a gunpowder, though he hadn't used it some years. He rotated the cylinder slowly, checking that the percussion caps were still firmly in place upon the nipples. Yes, it had served him well, but after six pulls of the trigger it'd take him about fifteen minutes to reload the thing. Six bullets was plenty enough when you were gunning down some lowly criminal and his friend, but a thing of nightmares? That might be another matter altogether. 

"I volunteer to go and erm, you said negotiate? Yeah, negotiate with them witches you spoke of, but I sure as Hell ain't going there alone. Pardon, me, Father, I mean I sure as heck ain't going there alone," he said. "Who's with me?"