Welsh: Yes, boyo. You messed up properly this time, didn't you? You little paddy bastard! You thieving mick cunt!
Irish: You got it all wrong, Welsh! All wrong. It was French! I promise. He said he was gonna rip you off, and now he's rippin' me off!
(Welsh and French dunk Irish back underwater)
French: Ya, keep on talking there, Irish! In about 15 more seconds your whole world's gonna turn black!
(John Marston walks into the barn)
John: What's up, boys?
(Welsh and French let go of Irish and turn to face John)
Welsh: Fuck off, boyo. This don't concern you!
John: When a man with a sing-song voice tells me to fuck off, it always concerns me, boyo.
French: Look here, this paddy bastard stole our gun. Tried to steal our horses. Law is clear on the matter.
Irish: I never stole nothing, sir. Never did. Not in all me life! That French cunt! He's playing with the Welshman's tiny and ineffective mind!
French: Hush your mouth!
John: Anyway, y'all got horses now. No one needs to die. Leave him be.
Welsh: Who do you think you are, boyo? The bloody cavalry?
John: Your voice is really starting to get on my nerves, boyo.
Welsh: And you're gettin' on my nerves!
(Welsh and French assault John, and are quickly killed)
John: A mister Nigel West Dickens said you'd help me locate a machine gun. And since I just saved your life...
Irish: I can't thank you enough for taking care of those two degenerates. Untrustworthy, poor in personal hygiene, and lackin' in the finer qualities of a gentleman.
John: What about the gun?
Irish: It'd be my pleasure. She's magnificent. Government issue. It'll be a bit of a ride, but we'll get there soon enough. Follow me, fella.
(John and Irish leave the barn)
Irish: Let's get this over with. The Saloon's callin' me.
(John and Irish then mount their horses)
Irish: What's your name, friend?
John: John. John Marston.
Irish: Stroke of luck you came along, fella. I thought I'd drunk me last breakfast there for a second.
John: Who were those fine specimens of humanity?
Irish: They was me only friends in the world. And boy am I glad to seem bastards dead. We all met on the boat over a few years back, we did. Thick as thieves ever since, and that right there was the problem.
John: Is it normal for friends in Europe to drown each other?
Irish: Never trust a Welshman, me Pa always told me, and he got his throat slit, so he should know. The kind of fellas who'll steal an acorn from a blind sow and then kick her for squealin'. And as for that French bastard...
John: He didn't sound very French.
Irish: Not far now. The thievin' bastards are holed up at the cabin by the lake. Can't wait to see the look on their faces when we blast in there. They'll be more surprised than a slut dog with her first porcupine.
John: You'd best not be lyin' to me.
Irish: Listen, fella. I didn't ask for your help back there. I don't owe you nothin'.
John: I'll decide what you do and don't owe me.
Irish: I've had enough of your overly aggressive manner, fella. You don't know who you're dealin' with here.
John: Irish, I've met enough men like you to last me a lifetime.
(John and Irish ride up to the top of the hill overlooking the cabin)
Irish: You can make quick work of those fellas if they give you trouble. The gun's stored just inside that shack.
John: What about you helping me out?
Irish: Aaah... I'll cover you from the ridge... I'm better from long range. It'll be a piece of cake, fella. Trust me.
(John walks down the ridge and approaches the criminals)
Kent: What the hell do you want?
(John draws his weapon)
Kent: What the hell? Take him down boys!
(John clears the area of criminals and enters the shack, only to find that there is no gun)
John: It's not here! That lyin' sack of shit!