"I've looked into you. You didn't rise from the slums of New York. You're a man of the west. Your name is whispered in more than one tale of violence. I know that before you stumble east you crawled from the depths of Mojave, fevered with thirst and hanging from the Reaper's coattails. I don't know what madness took you into the wilderness, or what tenacity brought you out, but I know it's what I need. I need a man who's weathered hardship. A man who's seen death."

"What's the catch," Priest asked with a shrewd smirk. 
"You mean other than being on our own for over three thousand miles and countless river crossings, under threat of hostile natives, bandits, and federales, not to mention plunging into the bosom of a foreign country for at least half of it, all while armed with little more than a few guns and our charming personalities?"
"Ja, other than those minor inconveniences," Swede laughed.