['talk it up' gets a chuckle out of him, still warm and rough, like a good whiskey.] Oh, if I was talkin' it up, I'd call it paradise on earth. A camp of gentlemen and kind women. It assuredly is not. The cook can't cook, the women are bawdy, and the men ain't gentle. They're respectable, most of 'em, provided you can take a little shit thrown your way. It is only what you make it.

[Dutch slips away from the window to set the cup aside, and finishes off his cigarette, putting it out.] And of course, there's a matter of work. Assumin' you ain't in the habit of bein' a scullery maid of some measure, you'd be asked to provide assistance when guns are needed. Guard duty, probably, if you ain't busy doin' what you do, while you stay with us. The odd job here'n there, if you ain't averse to some light robbery.

[He moves back towards her, more bold as he sets a hand on her shoulder, his voice conspiratorial.] Show my boys up when it comes to handlin' weapons. You've got the posture of a woman who knows what she's good at, and I see potential in takin' those men's egos down a peg. They're damn good, but they don't need to feel like they're the pinnacle of gunmanship.