Jesse James was clearly overhung and allowing his impatience to show when he banged on the door of the old shack where Calamity Jane was snoring off a jar of moonshine downed in the company of Scarlet O'Hara and Brett Butler; these Southern belles having celebrated the fact that Jesse had just robbed Fort Knox and he had run Pinkerton's men ragged all over the country and they still hadn't caught him and watching Pinkerton's men running ragged was always good for a laugh because they took themselves so very seriously - Pinkerton's men that is, not Calamity and Co.
"Git yer rear in gear, Calam, Ima here to git married and mah shotgun is loaded ter force yer if necessary. (Check cowboy dialect). He figured that it was a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. (Check source of quotation - try Seven Brides for Seven Brothers). Jesse was rich now and he wanted a wife but he drew the line at dancing and prancing with planks of wood, so nobody better make him.
"Come on, Calam, I'll take you to places you've never been before," he cajoled, smiling inwardly at this double-entendre but not having a clue at the same time what a double-entendre was, since he was not into high-falootin' fussy foreign language having only ever used Anglo-Saxon words for descriptive cussing.
Calamity pushed her tousled head through the crack of a loose board in the shack and blinked as Jesse looked on in deep rapture, taking in her bedraggled hair, her blotched skin and her strawberry lips, all the while his heart throbbing in concert with someplace else; his head was ready to explode.
"Are yer coming or not?" he ejaculated.