John saw the gun. He had guns pointed at him numerous times. He didn't much like guns either... Thankfully this one had decided to holster his pretty quickly. Still, a horse and a cowboy, on a space station? It seemed almost as surreal as the time he saw raptors.
The cough sounded fairly serious. It made him uncomfortable in ways he was not prepared to admit. He was a fairly heavy smoker, and if the powers of Heaven and Hell didn't get him first, he knew lung cancer probably would. But this guy had something else. Wasn't it easily treated too? Was the treatment available on the station? It definitely wasn't in this strangers day and age, if he truly was from the wild west. Ah the wild west... Over glamorised patriotism.
John puffed away on the cigarette, completely aware of what he was doing. "Maybe you should tell the bugger to piss off" John replied. "Kick death in the bollocks and live to smile in the face of fate" he added with a sympathetic smile. "Tuberculosis can be treated these days. It'll only collect any debts you think you're owe if you let it, mate" he added. "My name's John Constantine"