A couple of seats over and across, another occupant of the ship doesn't appear nearly as abuzz with nervous energy as the marshal. Eyes covered by the straw hat he wears, he hasn't spoken and barely moved at all except to work at sharpening his sword, which he's been at for what probably seems like hours. Likely because it has been. Properly caring for a sword like his is time-consuming.

Time ticks on by without a word from the swordsman, and barely a sound except for the incessant rasping of stone on steel.

Cowboy, meet samurai.