(John goes down to Brittlebrush Trawl to meet Irish.)
West: Yes well, that's what makes you such an interesting fellow, Mr. Irish. Ah, Mr. Marston...I've come to wish you well... How are you, sir?
Marston: I'm okay.
West: It seems that our friend Mr. Irish here is well-connected south of the border.
Irish: Oh, it's true. They love me down there. It's like a second home. I've got more friends than you can shake a stick at, should you so desire.
Marston: So, you know the way?
Irish: Oh, it's easy. We just get on me raft here and let the current sweep us away to paradise. Come on then, dovey.
Marston: I'm not sure your idea of paradise is the same as mine, Irish.
Irish: Relax, we'll have a great time and we'll find your man Williamson, no bother.
Marston: I hope so.
Irish: Hey, come on now. Look at it this way. I know we ain't exactly old pals, but, y'know...have I ever done you wrong?
Marston: No, but not through lack of trying.
West: Well, you boys have fun down there. I shall miss you, John Marston.
Marston: Thank you, where are you headed?
West: Oh me? London or Paris or maybe Peking. I'm a travelling man, sir. This land is much too small for the likes of me.
Marston: Well, try not to get yourself killed.
West: Oh well yes, we men of science are not a very loved bunch in this land of myth and superstition. I'm off to the civilized world where men like myself are revered and given medals.
Marston: Have fun.
West: The same to you, sir, the same to you.
(The ferry starts across the river.)
Marston: Nice of you to turn up for once, Irish.
Irish: What do you mean?
Marston: In usual fashion, you conveniently missed all the action at Fort Mercer.
Irish: What can I say? I woke up with me head in a pair of tits and it felt ill-mannered not to get reacquainted with 'em.
Marston: At least you've got your priorities straight.
Irish: You know me, Johnny boy. I'll be late to me own funeral. They said God invented whiskey to stop the Irish from rulin' the world.
Marston: Well, you're here now.
Irish: Look out! Bandits!
Bandit: Eres un traidor, Irish! Te voy a matar! (You are a traitor, Irish! I'm going to kill you!)
Irish: I probably should've mentioned there's a bounty or two on my head in Mexico. Alright, I'll beach this floatin' tinderbox once we lose these sons-a-bitches.
Marston: This ain't exactly the reception I was expectin'.
Irish: They're not ones to forgive and forget, these fellas.
Marston: What the hell did you do to these fellas?
Irish: I recall it was something to do with money, and possibly a misunderstanding about a fella's daughter, but the details escape me. I came into this world fightin'. And I'll go out of it fightin'!
Marston: I expect you'll go out of it pissin' your pants.
(They fighting stops momentarily.)
Marston: This is the fourth time your so-called friends have nearly got me killed. I thought you said they loved you over here?
Irish: They do...at least the lassies do. Oh, them big brown eyes. Turn stone into butter, they would. The Mexicans know how to make a bottle of liquor, too. That pulque! Now there's a drink that would take the frost out of frosty mornin'. Ah, you're gonna have some fun.
Marston: I'm just here for Bill Williamson.
Irish: Well, I'm glad to be back. This place is a wild devil's paradise.
Marston: Apart from the fellas tryin' to kill you.
Irish: Down here, they call me El Rato. The cat. On account of me stealth and cunning.
Marston: I'm pretty sure Rato means "rat," my friend. I like it, though, a little more inventive than Irish.
Irish: Well, you Americans over here never were very creative with your use of language, was you, John Marston? They're still comin'! Behind that big rock!
Marston: I haven't stepped foot in this country and they're already tryin' to kill me.
Irish: Well, you do insist on fraternizin' with a notorious Irish outlaw. Watch the top of that cliff! They're shootin' down on us! What's the word for cunt in Spanish?
Marston: You tell me. You must have been called it a few times.
Irish: Heads up! More of 'em up on the cliff to the left!
Marston: So much for your damn "connections," Irish!
Irish: I told you they knew me in Mexico, didn't I? I'll miss these escapades, Johnny boy, I really will.
Marston: I doubt you'll remember any of it, Irish.
Irish: There's a beach up on the left. Hang on, we'll be on dry land soon. Goddamn it, there's another two! We made it, thank the Lord. Am I glad to be gettin' off that floatin' deathtrap.
Irish: These horses look fresher and healthy.
Marston: Before you degrade these poor fools any longer, tell me where I'm headed.
Irish: Of course. Of course. Let me think.
Marston: You do know people down here? Aside from your friends who welcomed us on the way?
Irish: Yes, I think so. I was really drunk last time I was here, John. You know how it is. I met an American guy. Saw him shoot a man. Drank with him in the village of Chuparosa. Funny guy... Or was that Canada...? No. That was Canada. Guy here, not funny, but he's real nice. Failing that you could try the provincal governor, Colonel something or other...some Spanish name...he's based out of Escalera. I played Three Card Stud with him...or was it Four Card Monty? I forget. He was a real nice chap or maybe he was a real bastard. I was real drunk last time, John.
Marston: Well, thanks a lot for your help. Oh, let me guess. You've got to be on your way.
Irish: The famed hospitality isn't what it once was and I've never been known to overstay me welcome... So, off I go to greener pastures. Good luck, John. You're an angry and a feck ugly man; but not a bad one.
(They part ways for the final time.)