"What good is a gun against Mother Nature?" Doc muses with a mirthless little smile. "It probably wasn't deemed important enough to take." 'Magic' is very high up on Doc's list. So close to the top of it that he is convinced the sidearms are just comfort objects for them. Mere props to assure them with some illusion of safety that would be too quickly dispelled.

Of course, they are effective against the wild cats. But against magic? Or skin-melting fog? Or this kind of relentless, chill-to-the-bone snow? They would fare much better with a can of beans holstered to their hips.

"No. Something rather precious of mine was taken." It is a conscious effort to stop his other hand from touching and rubbing his tampered ring. Eternity in a gaudy loop around his finger. He couldn't feel it before. Didn't feel any different. But he feels it now. The weight of his own mortality. He hasn't yet started coughing, nor does he feel the weakness from chronic illness that would have consumed him from the inside out, which is the only reason he hasn't fled the premises and found an isolated place to lock himself away. But it brings him little comfort when death is so easy to come upon here.

"I do not think he was responsible." Hard to miss the way Raylan's staring daggers at their most esteemed host. "But it would be nice to find some answers."