Rick Belden, Craig's Son: Don't take no guts to kill a man when he's cuffed!
Marshal Matt Morgan: Takes guts not to. Be too easy on ya. You'd die too quick. I know an old man who'd like to kill you, Belden - the Indian way: slow. That's how I'm gonna do it: slow - but the white man's way. First you stand trial. That takes a fair amount of time, and you'll do a lot of sweating! Then they'll sentence ya. I never seen a man who didn't get sick to his stomach when he heard the kind of sentence you'll draw. After that you'll sit in a cell and wait, maybe for months, thinking how that rope will feel around your neck. Then they'll come around, some cold morning, just before sun-up. They'll tie your arms behind you. You'll start blubbering, kicking, yelling for help. But it won't do you any good. They'll drag you out in the yard, heave you up on that platform, fix that rope around your neck and leave you out there all alone with a big black hood over your eyes. You know the last sound you hear? Kind of a thump when they kick the trapdoor catch - and down you go. You'll hit the end of that rope like a sack of potatoes, all dead weight. It'll be white hot around your neck and your Adam's Apple will turn to mush. You'll fight for your breath, but you haven't got any breath. Your brain will begin to boil. You'll scream and holler! But nobody'll hear you. You'll hear it. But nobody else. Finally you're just swingin' there - all alone and dead.

Linda, Craig's Girl: The human race stinks. I'm practically an authority on that subject.

Craig Belden: You're leavin' on the next train. I own the sheriff! I own this town! I own every man in it! You're leavin' on the next train, Matt!
Marshal Matt Morgan: All right, Craig. The last train leaves at 9:00. I'll be on it... but there'll be two men with me, and one of them'll have a cut on his cheek.

Salesman in Horseshoe Saloon: You're kinda lonesome, missy.
Linda, Craig's Girl: I haven't been lonesome since I was twelve years old.

Marshal Matt Morgan: It's customary for the sheriff to cooperate - furnish deputies...
Gun Hill Sheriff Bartlett: We've got our own customaries, Mr. Morgan. Anyway, the sheriff ain't around.
Marshal Matt Morgan: When's he comin' back?
Gun Hill Sheriff Bartlett: He ain't comin' back.
Marshal Matt Morgan: [realizing he's being stonewalled, he puts his hands on his hips and smiles ironically] What are you? Deputy?
Gun Hill Sheriff Bartlett: Don't matter much what you call me.
[he takes a badge out of his pocket and throws it on the desk]
Marshal Matt Morgan: [looking at the badge] I'm callin' you yellow!