Deadwood (2004–2006): Season 2, Episode 9 - Amalgamation and Capital - full transcript
Bullock makes a connection with his son. Swearengen, who has entrusted E.B. to spy on the new telegraph operator, stokes rumors of an annexation of the camp and amends his agreement with ...
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- Good morning, William.
- Good morning, Mr. Bullock.
Are you sometimes permitted coffee?
Yes, sir.
About a third of a cup?
Completed with cow's milk.
As to sugar,
three spoons?
Is this the morning, William,
do you suppose,
the tip of this lamp, like an Indian spear,
goes into the top of my head?
(chuckles)
I don't know, sir.
Does it stand comparison
with your mother's?
No, sir.
Stiffened with a further lace of sugar?
I mean that he would make it, sir--
my father would.
Do you have time to sit a bit?
I suppose I might do,
having chopped the kindling
last evening.
Seth: Why don't you tell me
about your father, William?
I didn't know my brother
so well as you had a chance to.
I was nine when Robert left our home.
I think you knew him longer.
You were 11.
I knew him pretty well.
What did he like doing best?
Sometimes he'd sing.
Not army songs, but other kinds.
He would make Mother laugh.
He made the best duck calls of anyone.
He would send away through the wood,
and he taught me comebacks
and feeder calls and hails.
(knocks, door opens)
Mr. Utter and I have some
camp business to see to.
William, are you a good duck caller?
I suppose I'm pretty good.
I could show you, sir.
I know of potholes over Belle Fourche
way that are pretty good for ducks.
All right, sir.
Goodbye, Mr. Bullock.
- (knocks at door)
- EB Farnum, Al.
Come in, EB!
(hisses)
I've been prostrated
by the agonies of the damned.
Judgment is upon us then.
A molar rotted through.
Distressing me also
that you are my eyes and ears
and a day as eventful as yesterday
should find you indisposed.
(sniffs)
Some solace in knowing I'm missed.
You missed the advent
of the fucking telegraph operator
that had you steered into one of your rooms,
you could have kept tabs on henceforth.
The pain nearly killed me.
As you still breathe amongst us,
I shall ask you
to befriend this fucking Russian.
- Russian?
- The fucking telegraph operator, EB,
is a fucking Russian.
Of course I'll befriend him.
I'm very fond of Russians.
And as the trust between you deepens,
we'll be particularly interested
in messages to and from Yankton.
- (knocks)
- Yeah?
Sorry, EB.
Al, you might wanna
take a gander at that.
EB is leaving. You won't miss him.
He's living at Merrick's
and looks like the prize at a carnival.
What a delightful image
to carry away with me!
Swearengen's put
the paperman's boat to sea
with a hold full of fucking bullshit.
- He wants 5,000 more upstairs.
- Jesus Christ!
Tell that fat bastard he can
come down and get it hisself.
He says it's 100 if I bring it up.
Is the five you already brought him
in any kind of action, Tess?
It's just for him to look at
while he fucks you!
So do I want my $8, Tess,
of the $9 he pays for the fuck,
and my 90 of the 100 he gives you
to bring it up to him,
or do I want to give
fat boy the opportunity,
if he has to come down
to get the other five,
to test his luck on the floor here
amongst the games of chance?
- Tess: I see.
- And don't mistake me, honey--
I want to take the time
to explain myself to you.
We've come to see Mose Manuel
about his brother getting shot.
(snorts)
Fetch Mose Manuel, Tess.
Tell him Sheriff Bullock
wants to pay his condolences
here amongst the games of chance.
All these rumors, Sheriff,
swirling around you.
How do you keep your hat on?
If you'll sign right here, ma'am,
and give us a "AG" in the corner.
Is that abbreviation a term of art
in financial transactions?
Ought I acquaint myself
with its meaning?
That abbreviation, ma'am,
is your initials.
And by asking the whereabouts
of the currency
I signed for receiving, do I reveal
an even deeper stupidity?
The coach from Denver
should get in today.
And the safe we've purchased
to be housed in the bank
we're to build?
It's inside the coach as well.
Safe's inside the coach
and the currency is
inside the safe is the full picture.
- There, I did manage to be stupid.
- No, ma'am.
And you will see to the safe's
temporary situation
- at the Star & Bullock hardware store?
- Yes, ma'am.
Gaze averted from the awkwardness
such a situation generates.
Fixing my eyes instead on its pluses
securing your money.
Excellent then, Mr. Ellsworth.
(sniffs)
May I further impose upon you
to convey this letter?
Of course.
Mr. Swearengen?
- Please!
- All right.
Is there anything else
for us to discuss?
Not at this time.
(coughing, retching)
I'll be going then.
- (door opens)
- (Alma groans)
- Jane: Who's that?
- It's Joanie Stubbs.
- You're outside my place.
- (groans)
Keeping half-assed vigil after the fact.
Well, come in
and tell me what you mean.
(hawks, spits)
Nah, that's all right.
Uh, that cocksucker
you spoke to me of
come from here last night
with a bloody fucking mug.
Joanie: I gave it to him.
Good.
(groans)
(pants)
Anyways, he told me...
at rifle point you was okay.
- I am.
- I knew if he was lying you was dead,
and feared
finding you so in the darkness.
(clears throat)
Scared that way since I was small.
Well, come on in, Jane.
If you was alive...
(laughs)
why fucking knock
was my thinking.
Interfere with you getting to sleep
- or being asleep already--
- Jane, it's nippy on my twat.
All right then, see you later!
Do you remember you were
in here yesterday?
Yes, I fucking remember.
Well, why not come in again?
Maybe I just fucking might.
- (horse whinnies)
- Man: Hey hey hey.
Nigger General's got
a wild horse on his hands.
(clears throat)
- Hostetler: Whoa, boy, whoa whoa.
- I pity the brute beast
who pits his cunning
against the Nigger General's!
Whoa-- oh, shit! Come here, boy!
We can catch the cavalry before they
head south and sell him for $100!
- But they want their horses cut.
- Where'd you catch him?
I sprung a rope fence behind him
in a box canyon.
- (neighs)
- He'd escaped the Sioux--
but his path crossed
an in-season mare's.
Whoa boy, whoa boy.
Now I can nut him,
but the moon is wrong,
and he's gonna take it badly.
Fuck, I ain't losing my chance
at 100 waiting on no fucking moon!
Okay. Don't put your ass on me.
Hey! Hey!
Hostetler: Come on, boy.
Come on, boy.
Wash him so he won't fester.
Hey, I got him.
All right. Come here, boy.
Come here.
Now, if you want
to take it out on someone,
remember it was very dark-skinned
white folks that cut on you.
They just sounded like niggers
to throw you off.
This one's a D.
And this one's a G.
And what's the first one?
Whore: D?
Al:
"Sheriff Bullock declines comment
on the swirl of rumors
that parties in Helena
with whom he has had
long association
are keenly interested in annexing
our camp to the Montana Territories.
'The Pioneer' also learns
of interests more developed
and advanced
on the part of Wyoming."
Johnny: You knew Cheyenne
would be heard from.
Get the fuck up off them steps!
Here's where it gets
really fucking busy.
"And of an offer secretly proffered
by certain elements in Washington DC
to annex to America these
our beloved Hills as a separate
free-standing territory with an eye
towards eventual statehood."
Making Deadwood fucking headquarters.
Don't spread your legs
for them just yet, Johnny.
Not with Mexico to be
heard from and fucking France.
AW: There.
100 extra copies, gentlemen,
to satisfy the widened interest
I expect today's edition may generate.
Wonderful, eh, Mr. Blazanov?
- 100 copies extra.
- Okay.
Shall we walk a bit,
my American and Russian friends?
Shall we?
I can't leave my apparatus.
Are not all of us, Mr. Blazanov,
tethered in some sense to our labors?
And at some point in our lives,
is not acceptance of that tethering
discovery of a path to joy?
Don't know, Mr. Merrick.
Does not the very knowing we are tethered
allow us, in conscience, upon occasion,
the rejuvenating pleasures of respite?
Take your walk alone, AW,
for I confess I'm mesmerized
by Mr. Blazanov's machine
and hope he may explain its workings.
- Has Al seen "The Pioneer"?
- I don't know.
A mystery you should seek to solve.
- Good day.
- Ah, good day, miss.
Uh, AW Merrick
of "The Deadwood Pioneer."
- I wish to send a telegram.
- A telegram. Yes, of course.
Then that's Mr. Blazanov there you seek.
How do you do? Blazanov,
Cheyenne and Black Hills
Telegraph Company.
- How do you do?
- EB: Miss Isringhausen.
Mr. Farnum.
I wish this message sent.
Oh, of course.
I have a form for you to write on.
Please.
Hmm. Mmm.
You seem uncowed
by Mr. Blazanov's apparatus.
Are you initiate in its mysteries?
Fuck off.
Please.
Ah, gentlemen! Ah!
(laughs)
Oh, Jeez!
Ah, what news?
(chuckles)
This ink-stained wretch has just
produced an overrun of 100 copies!
- (kicks)
- Dan, don't you agree that the truth,
if only a pinch,
must season every falsehood,
or the palate fucking rebels?
And mustn't the novice chef be mindful
not to ladle out his concoction
by the unseasoned fucking ton,
lest before he perfect his art,
he lose his clientele?
I'd like the ball scores
a little more fucking prompt.
Excuse me.
Al Swearengen, I would not go
into that office if I were you.
Al:
Were you fucking born yesterday?
AW: No, sir, I was not.
I was not born yesterday!
Then may we please have
a conversation as fucking adults?
I think we'd better!
I ain't waiting.
Give this to him.
Tell him whatever its import,
he'd best not serve the sender ill.
Dan: He's in with Merrick, EB.
I bear news that don't want to wait.
Every rumor you floated
in your article, Merrick,
I believe is a living possibility
for this camp,
and I want you to fucking
hear that as a compliment.
If so, it's the first from your lips.
Because all them possibilities
called next to accomplished fact
in one fucking outgush
makes people smell a rat.
Yes, I suppose so.
These interests coming after us,
Merrick, they're fucking rough.
They're going after our nuts.
They're hypocrite cocksuckers,
and the fucking lying tactics
and instruments they use
to fuck people up the ass
can be turned against them.
My newspaper being
such an instrument.
But scale, amount,
proportion, seasoning.
Drink that fucking
second shot, Merrick!
I like my fucking liquor.
A trait in you that gave me early hope.
I like stinking of fucking ink too.
- Give it a fucking smell, Al.
- No.
So you enjoyed writing
your fucking article, huh?
Worse ways to spend a night,
putting shoulder to a fucking idea.
Evidently, I put mine to overmany.
Pursued down overmany avenues.
The camp's welfare was the main idea.
Al!
Something strange has transpired
I need you to construe.
What?
- As I was befriending--
- Come in!
As I was befriending
the Russian operator,
that woman tutor came
to send a telegram.
We jockeyed a bit
as I sought a glance at its contents,
and finally, she shouted
in so many words--
and here is the strangeness in a tutor--
to get the fuck away from her...
Since the private part
of this meeting's over,
(whispers)
Ellsworth brung it.
...in so many words.
- Where's the tutor now?
- Still with the operator,
apparently waiting
for an answer to her message.
Leave by the front entrance.
Walk around for a few minutes
before you go back to your place.
Bring that tutor up here.
The Russian too.
It felt like something
you'd want to construe.
Go away, EB.
All right. Certainly.
(sighs)
It's the seeds from the sunflower
we had in Fort Quitman,
which I had in a jar which broke
and mice ate most of.
So now I only have these three.
I didn't know you brought them.
Mr. Bullock has been missing Father.
I talked to him about it this morning.
As Papa liked the sunflower,
I thought Mr. Bullock might as well.
Then shall we plant those together?
Press the soil firmly on them,
while I get the watering can.
Maybe we should take
Mr. Bullock lunch at his store.
An accident befell my brother
is the sum of what I know,
and be glad I choose to say it.
Gutshot at Nuttall's No. 10
by his own hand?
Correct.
The day you sell out the claim
you two were partnered on?
Correct, and fuck yourself,
and don't act entitled to answers.
Why was Charlie handling the gun?
Fuck yourself,
and don't act entitled.
Why weren't you two
watching Nuttall's bike ride?
Fuck yourself.
Seth: I want to see his gun
and his remains.
Where is Charlie buried?
My brother is buried
in a secret burial place
by his own private instructions!
Cy: Jesus Christ, Bullock!
Put together a court or don't!
- Charlie: Quiet, you!
- Cy: Don't hush me in my own fucking joint.
And if we take it outside, old man,
expect a different outcome
from the other fucking day.
You best have five of your fucking
cappers then with rifles at the ready.
I got five and five behind them,
indoors or out.
I too must report
to the sheriff a death:
a Cornishman at theft has
been shot in Mr. Hearst's claim.
- Killed?
- Yes, in flight.
It's all fucking amalgamation
and capital, ain't it, Wolcott?
Mr. Utter, are you a student of Hume?
Smith?
A disciple of Karl Marx?
- Come on, Charlie.
- My employer Mr. Hearst
has interests and connections
in Montana, Sheriff,
as are imputed to you
in this morning's "Pioneer."
- You shut your fucking mouth!
- Cy: Get him out of here!
- Down, Charlie!
- Sure got to you, didn't he, Mose?
- Now he's got to get you to die!
- Come on, Charlie!
Mm-hmm.
Let me, uh...
get my arm through here
so I can secure my toast.
You're gonna lift me
one time too fucking many!
You don't go back in there
if I let you go.
- I'm leaving the whole fucking camp!
- Going where?
A letter come to hand
I need to take to Bill's missus.
Excuse me.
Excuse me. Camp business.
He wrote
just before he got killed.
- I see.
- And you know who fucking give it to me?
How crazy life got?
And money must buy these bastards
any-fucking-thing they want!
That cocksucker inside,
Mr. Amalgamation & Fucking Capital!
Hearst's geologist
gave you the letter?
And God knows
who he fucking bought it off of...
or how many hands it passed through.
It fucks me up thinking Bill's missus got to
handle something that cocksucker touched.
Was it over the letter
you beat him the other day?
No no.
Excuse me.
No, I give my word not--
not to say what that was over.
I'd best go,
lest Mr. Amalgamation & Capital
takes one through the fucking head.
What's the import of that expression?
Do I look like I'd fucking know?
Some big-shot
Eastern magazine reporter
interviewing Bill said that was
what's changing things around.
Jane. I don't know what's gonna
come of fucking Jane.
- I'll keep an eye on her.
- You should lock her in that cell
and don't let her fucking drink!
And don't fuck yourself up
over Mose Manuel.
He'll get hisself fleeced of what is
rightfully his and what he got by murder.
He'll be judge on hisself and jury too,
just like the fucking most of us.
Coach from Denver.
Here's yours.
Good luck, Charlie!
We've brought you and Mr. Star lunch.
Thank you.
I'm up!
You want the bath?
I may well get to that.
- Ample here, ain't it?
- Yeah.
Uh, formerly a cooperage.
My friend Eddie that bought him out
said the man had been
a season ahead of himself.
Well, lovely as it's fixed as a brothel,
I expect you will reopen
soon enough, uh...
(chuckles)
restock and reopen.
You'd think so, wouldn't you?
Stay awhile, Jane.
Be my guest.
Favor me and stay.
I get top fucking dollar.
(chuckles)
New saloon in the camp, Jane?
I know that's some clever
opening gambit
to culminate in breaking my balls.
Just saying I checked the usual spots
'cause I wanted to say goodbye
before I left camp,
so in case you go ahead
and fucking die--
Goodbye, Charlie, goodbye.
Have a good fucking trip.
Shut the fuck up!
'Cause it so happens,
when you return--
if no trees or animals killed you
that you were fucking driving
crazy with criticism--
you will find I've moved out
of this shitbox
so I don't have
to fucking embarrass you
or fucking have you hovering over me
like the ugliest fucking nurse
in the fucking universe.
- Into where?
- Into where what?
Into where are you fucking moving
when you fucking move out of here?
Into the fucking whorehouse
down the way,
which you fucking sent me
to see that woman at,
if needing to piss in my ear
didn't crowd out
every other fucking thought
or recollection in your head!
How did the two of you get along?
Did I just fucking say
I was moving in there?
Which being it's a fucking whorehouse
could indicate some fucking business
arrangement or some other fucking thing.
Yeah, I'm gonna be Queen Hooker.
You're a keen fucking student
of the human scene, Charlie!
Well, good.
Good.
Where are you going, anyway?
I've made a decision not to tell you.
If you made a decision not to tell me,
what did you just fucking tell me for?
My decision is not to tell you
my specific destination...
'cause...
I don't think I should.
And that's that.
Well, have a safe journey
to your unannounced destination
and a safe fucking return.
And good luck to you
with your new living arrangement.
And, uh... my best, please,
to Miss Stubbs.
And you not only a fucking pain
in the balls, Charlie,
but also the strangest
fucking person I ever met.
- You'll get no argument here.
- Good!
(door slams)
Three plus three would equal six.
Well, I sometimes put nine
to amuse myself.
Sol: All right, take it up.
Vigilant to detail like his pa.
I'd think Mrs. Garret
as the bank's chief backer
might wish to be present
for its opening.
Well, as far as that, I got her proxy.
Yes, but wouldn't she wish to be?
Perhaps she would.
- I can ask.
- (rope zings)
- (safe thuds)
- Trixie: Excuse me.
(piercing whistle)
What the fuck is going on?
You ask the wrong fella.
The water comes to a boil
between them two fucking women,
I will fucking guarantee you that much.
Have you proposed to Mrs. Garret
as you fucking swore you would?
Leaving aside
what I did swear or didn't,
- let's say I fucking have.
- And?
That's where the matter stands.
She ain't said yes or no.
How did the lady incline,
fucking Ellsworth?
I wouldn't guess, fucking Trixie.
Did you present yourself
enthusiastic?
Well, I didn't dance a jig
if that's what you're asking.
Or more fucking glum-like,
next to inviting refusal.
Not glum, not...
inviting refusal.
Straightforward, I'd call it.
- Sincere?
- Yeah.
Well, what the fuck is
her fucking problem then?
You're a worthy enough
fucking candidate,
given all her fucking givens.
Warm endorsement.
She'd have to state her reservations.
Mrs. Garret writ me a letter
saying how yesterday she lost her temper
with you somewhat and judgment.
She tipped she was
on to you being a Pinkerton.
Oh, being bright, I expect you concluded
it was me must have told her,
meaning maybe I had sold over to her.
And with my allegiance now in question,
I expect you wired the Pinkerton big-shots,
arguing you oughtn't sign any documents
that might be able to prove
that you, the agency
and Mrs. Garret's fucking
in-laws hired me to lay
at Mrs. Garret's doorstep
the murder of her husband.
And further, Mr. Swearengen,
that as to purchase of your allegiance--
now in question-- they might wish
to keep the bidding open.
Bidding is open always
on everyone, Miss Isringhausen.
But I expect you understand,
knowing as I do,
should Mrs. Garret lose her claim,
rather than operate it themselves,
her cunt in-laws will sell
to third-party cocksuckers
inimical to the whole
of my interests in this camp!
To buy my allegiance against myself,
in-law cunts and shit-heel operators
would have to bid very high indeed.
No, more likely, Miss Isringhausen,
I think you'd contemplate
changing your allegiance
before I would mine.
What benefit would I consider
might accrue to me?
I intercepted your shit-heel boss's
message back to you,
through the miracle of telegraph
and it answers that very question.
As I have it here before me,
I will read it to you verbatim:
"Miss Isringhausen,
as this will save you great pain
and keep you from being killed,
sign all documents
Mr. Swearengen has drawn.
Take the $5,000 and disappear.
Yours sincerely, your boss,
Pinkerton Shit-Heels."
The $5,000 alluded to
in the invisible telegram,
can the money be produced?
Without, of course, exposing him
to the contents of the document,
I would want the sheriff
present at my signature
and as my escort from the camp.
I bet that can be arranged.
I can't betray the confidence
of messages.
Don't guarantee what
you'll never do, Blazanov,
not without imagining
your feet stuck to the fire.
(sighs)
- Blazanov: Sir--
- (clears throat)
I am a person whose parents
have been murdered,
and no other family connection
and feeling,
and believe in confidence
of messages.
What the fuck is all that
supposed to mean?
I hope...
feet in the fire
would not change me.
- Congratulations, Mr. Nuttall.
- Thank you, young man.
- How's the Boneshaker?
- Unshook.
Which would be
a fib to say about me.
(laughs)
I've come, Sheriff,
to ask what you've learned
of the shooting yesterday in my place.
Mose Manuel said his brother
killed himself by accident.
Uh, by accident?
Two hours before
Mose sells their claim--
that Charlie said they'd worked theirselves--
lock, stock and barrel
- to the Hearst interests?
- There's no witnesses, Tom.
Hurtful--
brother against brother
in a joint that bears my name--
the most recent hurtful event.
But might I ask William
to assist me in calibrating
the Boneshaker's handlebars?
Go ahead, William.
I don't know how
to calibrate handlebars, sir.
Tom:
Knowledge is overrated, William.
Diligence is what's required
in the service of a willing spirit.
(laughs)
Oh oh oh oh easy!
Easy, boy.
I use my right hand to pour.
(laughs)
Ellsworth: And then Mrs. Bullock
said as it's yours,
you might want to see
the safe installed.
- Did she?
- Yes, ma'am,
having brought the midday meal
as the safe arrived with the money inside.
And what did Mr. Bullock
say to Mrs. Bullock?
He said that might be a good idea.
With enthusiasm equaling yours
as you describe the moment?
I'd say on Mr. Bullock's part,
about equal enthusiasm,
Mrs. Garret, yes.
- Despite which Mrs. Bullock persisted?
- Yes.
Well, perhaps I oughtn't
to disappoint her.
Earlier when I asked what else
we might have to discuss,
I referred to my proposal.
I took that to be
your meaning at the time.
Chose not to respond?
Not to, yes, as I hadn't yet
made up my mind.
- Have you now?
- Nor have I now.
Would you have me decide now,
before I act on Mrs. Bullock's invitation?
Do you put me to those terms?
I guess there's no burning rush.
(clears throat)
Shall we go for a walk, Sofia?
Are you certain you won't join us?
Thank you.
I tend to forego the midday meal.
It occurred to me,
Mrs. Garret having reason
to be present in any case,
that we might discuss
in more formed a fashion
our plans for the children's schooling,
more constructively than
in some previous conversation.
- I'm delighted.
- Wonderful.
(clears throat)
Mr. Swearengen asked
to see you, Sheriff.
Not just now.
Tom: A man tying
the right rope to the frame
and the other end to a thunderhead
could use the machine to tow clouds.
William: I wish I was taller.
Well, when your legs lengthen,
I calculate you will be among
the great cloud haulers of the world.
Just to ride like you did
yesterday, Mr. Nuttall.
You should have seen your face.
The Bella Union Gap was
my crucible, William--
the fabled mud slick.
I shifted shoulders forward--
uh, not too much,
and at a sledge-trench, ho!
Swung my buttocks left, by God,
turned the bars just so,
thump!
The buried plank, bom!
And did I not come through a treat?
(both laugh)
Alma: Good afternoon.
- Good afternoon.
- Good afternoon.
Martha: Good afternoon,
Mrs. Garret.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Bullock.
Very good wishes on a venture
offering opportunity
to so many in the camp.
- Thank you.
- Hope.
For taking up the education
of the camp's children,
my Sofia included, thank you.
As I feel I expressed inadequately
when last we spoke.
- Bite of meat, Mrs. Garret?
- No, thank you.
That appears to be the safe.
William, do we dare ride double?
- I do if you do.
- I do!
Dauntless then!
Courage high to the sticking place,
and honor bright as I mount and circle
and consider the best way
to swoop you up.
- (laughs)
- Awaiting you here, sir.
Great.
Beautiful.
(laughs)
This all seems very much in order.
First depositor.
Uh, it's to witness some
wrist business, Sheriff.
Al said brief but
of crucial importance.
- How long will we be?
- Brief, very.
And you'd save me a beating.
(chuckles)
Excuse me.
Mose:
Get your head on it.
(Tess muffled)
My head is on it.
Cy:
Get your head on it, Tess!
Tess:
It's on it, Mr. Tolliver.
It does sound like a girl
with a mouthful, Mr. Manuel.
- Jesus Christ!
- Her tongue in her cheek
can achieve the same fucking effect.
- I require a conversation with the sheriff.
- Confess a crime.
You're fucking cheating me!
Get the fuck out from under there!
- I ain't cheating you, sir.
- Will you have another dealer, Mr. Manuel?
- Another fucking cheat?
- Hot and cold's the way the cards run, sir,
time immemorial.
I want it back. Give it back to me!
Give him his last wager, Leon.
We will call that one no bet.
Yes, sir, Mr. Tolliver.
All of it.
- Everything.
- Now I can't do that, Mr. Manuel,
as I believe you know.
And those rifles are
aimed at your head.
Everything!
Including youth, Mr. Manuel?
And why not beauty?
Not credibly restored, perhaps,
but as a new non-negotiable term?
Would you not have, too,
your brother Charlie resurrected?
Would you stipulate
your envy of him be purged?
Surely you'll insist that Charlie
retain certain defects--
his ineffable self-deceptions,
for example,
which were your joy in life to rebuke,
and purpose, so far as you had one.
I suppose you would see
removed those qualities
which caused you to love him,
and the obliviousness to danger
which allowed you to shed his blood.
I want to talk to Bullock!
Get the fucking doc!
I could have cooled that out.
On my order, Mr. Tolliver,
Lee will burn this building,
mutilating you before,
during or after as I specify,
or when he chooses unless I forbid.
Oh, my full attention
is at your disposal.
Tell Sheriff Bullock what transpired
here before getting the doc.
(wheezing)
- And now how many?
- Eight.
Sofia: Two portions of four.
Very good, Sofia.
May I have candy?
You ask a reward, Sofia,
for doing your numbers?
Where would you
get such an idea?
"Received from Trixie..."
The whore.
(gasps)
May I sign the first receipt?
Yes, please do.
Huzzah.
I'm to fetch Sheriff Bullock.
Sol:
He'll be back momentarily.
All right, let's go.
(clears throat)
- Steve: Ready, ready?
- Ready. Here we go.
Up! Up!
(groans, laughs)
William: We missed.
Trial run. No harm done at all.
Hey, swing around, Tom!
On my way!
- Hostetler: Tie off that leg rope.
- Don't you want to serve your country
as good as they been to you?
I bet you don't even vote.
Hold that leg rope!
- (horse whinnying)
- Fields: Whoa, hey, whoa!
Steve:
That's between us.
- Tell no one I give you that.
- I'd best not, but thank you.
You keep it a secret,
and you won't get into any trouble.
And if you told
I helped you on the bike,
that's between you and your father.
- (neighs)
- Oh shit!
(whinnies)
Fields: Hey!
- (neighs)
- (woman screams)
(shouting)
Steve:
I think my back's broke.
(woman humming)
♪ Mama's gonna
buy him a li'l lap dog ♪
♪ Mama's gonna buy him
a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Mama's gonna
buy him a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Put him in his lap
when she goes out ♪
♪ Come on, Pa,
sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa, sing hey hey ♪
♪ Go to sleep
and don't you cry ♪
♪ Mother's gonna give us
some apple pie ♪
♪ Come on, Pa, sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa,
sing hey hey ♪
♪ Mama's gonna buy him
a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Mama's gonna
buy him a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Mama's gonna buy him
a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Put him in his lap
when she goes off ♪
♪ Come on, Pa,
sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa, sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa,
sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa, sing hey hey ♪
(humming tune)
He's asleep now.
- Good morning, William.
- Good morning, Mr. Bullock.
Are you sometimes permitted coffee?
Yes, sir.
About a third of a cup?
Completed with cow's milk.
As to sugar,
three spoons?
Is this the morning, William,
do you suppose,
the tip of this lamp, like an Indian spear,
goes into the top of my head?
(chuckles)
I don't know, sir.
Does it stand comparison
with your mother's?
No, sir.
Stiffened with a further lace of sugar?
I mean that he would make it, sir--
my father would.
Do you have time to sit a bit?
I suppose I might do,
having chopped the kindling
last evening.
Seth: Why don't you tell me
about your father, William?
I didn't know my brother
so well as you had a chance to.
I was nine when Robert left our home.
I think you knew him longer.
You were 11.
I knew him pretty well.
What did he like doing best?
Sometimes he'd sing.
Not army songs, but other kinds.
He would make Mother laugh.
He made the best duck calls of anyone.
He would send away through the wood,
and he taught me comebacks
and feeder calls and hails.
(knocks, door opens)
Mr. Utter and I have some
camp business to see to.
William, are you a good duck caller?
I suppose I'm pretty good.
I could show you, sir.
I know of potholes over Belle Fourche
way that are pretty good for ducks.
All right, sir.
Goodbye, Mr. Bullock.
- (knocks at door)
- EB Farnum, Al.
Come in, EB!
(hisses)
I've been prostrated
by the agonies of the damned.
Judgment is upon us then.
A molar rotted through.
Distressing me also
that you are my eyes and ears
and a day as eventful as yesterday
should find you indisposed.
(sniffs)
Some solace in knowing I'm missed.
You missed the advent
of the fucking telegraph operator
that had you steered into one of your rooms,
you could have kept tabs on henceforth.
The pain nearly killed me.
As you still breathe amongst us,
I shall ask you
to befriend this fucking Russian.
- Russian?
- The fucking telegraph operator, EB,
is a fucking Russian.
Of course I'll befriend him.
I'm very fond of Russians.
And as the trust between you deepens,
we'll be particularly interested
in messages to and from Yankton.
- (knocks)
- Yeah?
Sorry, EB.
Al, you might wanna
take a gander at that.
EB is leaving. You won't miss him.
He's living at Merrick's
and looks like the prize at a carnival.
What a delightful image
to carry away with me!
Swearengen's put
the paperman's boat to sea
with a hold full of fucking bullshit.
- He wants 5,000 more upstairs.
- Jesus Christ!
Tell that fat bastard he can
come down and get it hisself.
He says it's 100 if I bring it up.
Is the five you already brought him
in any kind of action, Tess?
It's just for him to look at
while he fucks you!
So do I want my $8, Tess,
of the $9 he pays for the fuck,
and my 90 of the 100 he gives you
to bring it up to him,
or do I want to give
fat boy the opportunity,
if he has to come down
to get the other five,
to test his luck on the floor here
amongst the games of chance?
- Tess: I see.
- And don't mistake me, honey--
I want to take the time
to explain myself to you.
We've come to see Mose Manuel
about his brother getting shot.
(snorts)
Fetch Mose Manuel, Tess.
Tell him Sheriff Bullock
wants to pay his condolences
here amongst the games of chance.
All these rumors, Sheriff,
swirling around you.
How do you keep your hat on?
If you'll sign right here, ma'am,
and give us a "AG" in the corner.
Is that abbreviation a term of art
in financial transactions?
Ought I acquaint myself
with its meaning?
That abbreviation, ma'am,
is your initials.
And by asking the whereabouts
of the currency
I signed for receiving, do I reveal
an even deeper stupidity?
The coach from Denver
should get in today.
And the safe we've purchased
to be housed in the bank
we're to build?
It's inside the coach as well.
Safe's inside the coach
and the currency is
inside the safe is the full picture.
- There, I did manage to be stupid.
- No, ma'am.
And you will see to the safe's
temporary situation
- at the Star & Bullock hardware store?
- Yes, ma'am.
Gaze averted from the awkwardness
such a situation generates.
Fixing my eyes instead on its pluses
securing your money.
Excellent then, Mr. Ellsworth.
(sniffs)
May I further impose upon you
to convey this letter?
Of course.
Mr. Swearengen?
- Please!
- All right.
Is there anything else
for us to discuss?
Not at this time.
(coughing, retching)
I'll be going then.
- (door opens)
- (Alma groans)
- Jane: Who's that?
- It's Joanie Stubbs.
- You're outside my place.
- (groans)
Keeping half-assed vigil after the fact.
Well, come in
and tell me what you mean.
(hawks, spits)
Nah, that's all right.
Uh, that cocksucker
you spoke to me of
come from here last night
with a bloody fucking mug.
Joanie: I gave it to him.
Good.
(groans)
(pants)
Anyways, he told me...
at rifle point you was okay.
- I am.
- I knew if he was lying you was dead,
and feared
finding you so in the darkness.
(clears throat)
Scared that way since I was small.
Well, come on in, Jane.
If you was alive...
(laughs)
why fucking knock
was my thinking.
Interfere with you getting to sleep
- or being asleep already--
- Jane, it's nippy on my twat.
All right then, see you later!
Do you remember you were
in here yesterday?
Yes, I fucking remember.
Well, why not come in again?
Maybe I just fucking might.
- (horse whinnies)
- Man: Hey hey hey.
Nigger General's got
a wild horse on his hands.
(clears throat)
- Hostetler: Whoa, boy, whoa whoa.
- I pity the brute beast
who pits his cunning
against the Nigger General's!
Whoa-- oh, shit! Come here, boy!
We can catch the cavalry before they
head south and sell him for $100!
- But they want their horses cut.
- Where'd you catch him?
I sprung a rope fence behind him
in a box canyon.
- (neighs)
- He'd escaped the Sioux--
but his path crossed
an in-season mare's.
Whoa boy, whoa boy.
Now I can nut him,
but the moon is wrong,
and he's gonna take it badly.
Fuck, I ain't losing my chance
at 100 waiting on no fucking moon!
Okay. Don't put your ass on me.
Hey! Hey!
Hostetler: Come on, boy.
Come on, boy.
Wash him so he won't fester.
Hey, I got him.
All right. Come here, boy.
Come here.
Now, if you want
to take it out on someone,
remember it was very dark-skinned
white folks that cut on you.
They just sounded like niggers
to throw you off.
This one's a D.
And this one's a G.
And what's the first one?
Whore: D?
Al:
"Sheriff Bullock declines comment
on the swirl of rumors
that parties in Helena
with whom he has had
long association
are keenly interested in annexing
our camp to the Montana Territories.
'The Pioneer' also learns
of interests more developed
and advanced
on the part of Wyoming."
Johnny: You knew Cheyenne
would be heard from.
Get the fuck up off them steps!
Here's where it gets
really fucking busy.
"And of an offer secretly proffered
by certain elements in Washington DC
to annex to America these
our beloved Hills as a separate
free-standing territory with an eye
towards eventual statehood."
Making Deadwood fucking headquarters.
Don't spread your legs
for them just yet, Johnny.
Not with Mexico to be
heard from and fucking France.
AW: There.
100 extra copies, gentlemen,
to satisfy the widened interest
I expect today's edition may generate.
Wonderful, eh, Mr. Blazanov?
- 100 copies extra.
- Okay.
Shall we walk a bit,
my American and Russian friends?
Shall we?
I can't leave my apparatus.
Are not all of us, Mr. Blazanov,
tethered in some sense to our labors?
And at some point in our lives,
is not acceptance of that tethering
discovery of a path to joy?
Don't know, Mr. Merrick.
Does not the very knowing we are tethered
allow us, in conscience, upon occasion,
the rejuvenating pleasures of respite?
Take your walk alone, AW,
for I confess I'm mesmerized
by Mr. Blazanov's machine
and hope he may explain its workings.
- Has Al seen "The Pioneer"?
- I don't know.
A mystery you should seek to solve.
- Good day.
- Ah, good day, miss.
Uh, AW Merrick
of "The Deadwood Pioneer."
- I wish to send a telegram.
- A telegram. Yes, of course.
Then that's Mr. Blazanov there you seek.
How do you do? Blazanov,
Cheyenne and Black Hills
Telegraph Company.
- How do you do?
- EB: Miss Isringhausen.
Mr. Farnum.
I wish this message sent.
Oh, of course.
I have a form for you to write on.
Please.
Hmm. Mmm.
You seem uncowed
by Mr. Blazanov's apparatus.
Are you initiate in its mysteries?
Fuck off.
Please.
Ah, gentlemen! Ah!
(laughs)
Oh, Jeez!
Ah, what news?
(chuckles)
This ink-stained wretch has just
produced an overrun of 100 copies!
- (kicks)
- Dan, don't you agree that the truth,
if only a pinch,
must season every falsehood,
or the palate fucking rebels?
And mustn't the novice chef be mindful
not to ladle out his concoction
by the unseasoned fucking ton,
lest before he perfect his art,
he lose his clientele?
I'd like the ball scores
a little more fucking prompt.
Excuse me.
Al Swearengen, I would not go
into that office if I were you.
Al:
Were you fucking born yesterday?
AW: No, sir, I was not.
I was not born yesterday!
Then may we please have
a conversation as fucking adults?
I think we'd better!
I ain't waiting.
Give this to him.
Tell him whatever its import,
he'd best not serve the sender ill.
Dan: He's in with Merrick, EB.
I bear news that don't want to wait.
Every rumor you floated
in your article, Merrick,
I believe is a living possibility
for this camp,
and I want you to fucking
hear that as a compliment.
If so, it's the first from your lips.
Because all them possibilities
called next to accomplished fact
in one fucking outgush
makes people smell a rat.
Yes, I suppose so.
These interests coming after us,
Merrick, they're fucking rough.
They're going after our nuts.
They're hypocrite cocksuckers,
and the fucking lying tactics
and instruments they use
to fuck people up the ass
can be turned against them.
My newspaper being
such an instrument.
But scale, amount,
proportion, seasoning.
Drink that fucking
second shot, Merrick!
I like my fucking liquor.
A trait in you that gave me early hope.
I like stinking of fucking ink too.
- Give it a fucking smell, Al.
- No.
So you enjoyed writing
your fucking article, huh?
Worse ways to spend a night,
putting shoulder to a fucking idea.
Evidently, I put mine to overmany.
Pursued down overmany avenues.
The camp's welfare was the main idea.
Al!
Something strange has transpired
I need you to construe.
What?
- As I was befriending--
- Come in!
As I was befriending
the Russian operator,
that woman tutor came
to send a telegram.
We jockeyed a bit
as I sought a glance at its contents,
and finally, she shouted
in so many words--
and here is the strangeness in a tutor--
to get the fuck away from her...
Since the private part
of this meeting's over,
(whispers)
Ellsworth brung it.
...in so many words.
- Where's the tutor now?
- Still with the operator,
apparently waiting
for an answer to her message.
Leave by the front entrance.
Walk around for a few minutes
before you go back to your place.
Bring that tutor up here.
The Russian too.
It felt like something
you'd want to construe.
Go away, EB.
All right. Certainly.
(sighs)
It's the seeds from the sunflower
we had in Fort Quitman,
which I had in a jar which broke
and mice ate most of.
So now I only have these three.
I didn't know you brought them.
Mr. Bullock has been missing Father.
I talked to him about it this morning.
As Papa liked the sunflower,
I thought Mr. Bullock might as well.
Then shall we plant those together?
Press the soil firmly on them,
while I get the watering can.
Maybe we should take
Mr. Bullock lunch at his store.
An accident befell my brother
is the sum of what I know,
and be glad I choose to say it.
Gutshot at Nuttall's No. 10
by his own hand?
Correct.
The day you sell out the claim
you two were partnered on?
Correct, and fuck yourself,
and don't act entitled to answers.
Why was Charlie handling the gun?
Fuck yourself,
and don't act entitled.
Why weren't you two
watching Nuttall's bike ride?
Fuck yourself.
Seth: I want to see his gun
and his remains.
Where is Charlie buried?
My brother is buried
in a secret burial place
by his own private instructions!
Cy: Jesus Christ, Bullock!
Put together a court or don't!
- Charlie: Quiet, you!
- Cy: Don't hush me in my own fucking joint.
And if we take it outside, old man,
expect a different outcome
from the other fucking day.
You best have five of your fucking
cappers then with rifles at the ready.
I got five and five behind them,
indoors or out.
I too must report
to the sheriff a death:
a Cornishman at theft has
been shot in Mr. Hearst's claim.
- Killed?
- Yes, in flight.
It's all fucking amalgamation
and capital, ain't it, Wolcott?
Mr. Utter, are you a student of Hume?
Smith?
A disciple of Karl Marx?
- Come on, Charlie.
- My employer Mr. Hearst
has interests and connections
in Montana, Sheriff,
as are imputed to you
in this morning's "Pioneer."
- You shut your fucking mouth!
- Cy: Get him out of here!
- Down, Charlie!
- Sure got to you, didn't he, Mose?
- Now he's got to get you to die!
- Come on, Charlie!
Mm-hmm.
Let me, uh...
get my arm through here
so I can secure my toast.
You're gonna lift me
one time too fucking many!
You don't go back in there
if I let you go.
- I'm leaving the whole fucking camp!
- Going where?
A letter come to hand
I need to take to Bill's missus.
Excuse me.
Excuse me. Camp business.
He wrote
just before he got killed.
- I see.
- And you know who fucking give it to me?
How crazy life got?
And money must buy these bastards
any-fucking-thing they want!
That cocksucker inside,
Mr. Amalgamation & Fucking Capital!
Hearst's geologist
gave you the letter?
And God knows
who he fucking bought it off of...
or how many hands it passed through.
It fucks me up thinking Bill's missus got to
handle something that cocksucker touched.
Was it over the letter
you beat him the other day?
No no.
Excuse me.
No, I give my word not--
not to say what that was over.
I'd best go,
lest Mr. Amalgamation & Capital
takes one through the fucking head.
What's the import of that expression?
Do I look like I'd fucking know?
Some big-shot
Eastern magazine reporter
interviewing Bill said that was
what's changing things around.
Jane. I don't know what's gonna
come of fucking Jane.
- I'll keep an eye on her.
- You should lock her in that cell
and don't let her fucking drink!
And don't fuck yourself up
over Mose Manuel.
He'll get hisself fleeced of what is
rightfully his and what he got by murder.
He'll be judge on hisself and jury too,
just like the fucking most of us.
Coach from Denver.
Here's yours.
Good luck, Charlie!
We've brought you and Mr. Star lunch.
Thank you.
I'm up!
You want the bath?
I may well get to that.
- Ample here, ain't it?
- Yeah.
Uh, formerly a cooperage.
My friend Eddie that bought him out
said the man had been
a season ahead of himself.
Well, lovely as it's fixed as a brothel,
I expect you will reopen
soon enough, uh...
(chuckles)
restock and reopen.
You'd think so, wouldn't you?
Stay awhile, Jane.
Be my guest.
Favor me and stay.
I get top fucking dollar.
(chuckles)
New saloon in the camp, Jane?
I know that's some clever
opening gambit
to culminate in breaking my balls.
Just saying I checked the usual spots
'cause I wanted to say goodbye
before I left camp,
so in case you go ahead
and fucking die--
Goodbye, Charlie, goodbye.
Have a good fucking trip.
Shut the fuck up!
'Cause it so happens,
when you return--
if no trees or animals killed you
that you were fucking driving
crazy with criticism--
you will find I've moved out
of this shitbox
so I don't have
to fucking embarrass you
or fucking have you hovering over me
like the ugliest fucking nurse
in the fucking universe.
- Into where?
- Into where what?
Into where are you fucking moving
when you fucking move out of here?
Into the fucking whorehouse
down the way,
which you fucking sent me
to see that woman at,
if needing to piss in my ear
didn't crowd out
every other fucking thought
or recollection in your head!
How did the two of you get along?
Did I just fucking say
I was moving in there?
Which being it's a fucking whorehouse
could indicate some fucking business
arrangement or some other fucking thing.
Yeah, I'm gonna be Queen Hooker.
You're a keen fucking student
of the human scene, Charlie!
Well, good.
Good.
Where are you going, anyway?
I've made a decision not to tell you.
If you made a decision not to tell me,
what did you just fucking tell me for?
My decision is not to tell you
my specific destination...
'cause...
I don't think I should.
And that's that.
Well, have a safe journey
to your unannounced destination
and a safe fucking return.
And good luck to you
with your new living arrangement.
And, uh... my best, please,
to Miss Stubbs.
And you not only a fucking pain
in the balls, Charlie,
but also the strangest
fucking person I ever met.
- You'll get no argument here.
- Good!
(door slams)
Three plus three would equal six.
Well, I sometimes put nine
to amuse myself.
Sol: All right, take it up.
Vigilant to detail like his pa.
I'd think Mrs. Garret
as the bank's chief backer
might wish to be present
for its opening.
Well, as far as that, I got her proxy.
Yes, but wouldn't she wish to be?
Perhaps she would.
- I can ask.
- (rope zings)
- (safe thuds)
- Trixie: Excuse me.
(piercing whistle)
What the fuck is going on?
You ask the wrong fella.
The water comes to a boil
between them two fucking women,
I will fucking guarantee you that much.
Have you proposed to Mrs. Garret
as you fucking swore you would?
Leaving aside
what I did swear or didn't,
- let's say I fucking have.
- And?
That's where the matter stands.
She ain't said yes or no.
How did the lady incline,
fucking Ellsworth?
I wouldn't guess, fucking Trixie.
Did you present yourself
enthusiastic?
Well, I didn't dance a jig
if that's what you're asking.
Or more fucking glum-like,
next to inviting refusal.
Not glum, not...
inviting refusal.
Straightforward, I'd call it.
- Sincere?
- Yeah.
Well, what the fuck is
her fucking problem then?
You're a worthy enough
fucking candidate,
given all her fucking givens.
Warm endorsement.
She'd have to state her reservations.
Mrs. Garret writ me a letter
saying how yesterday she lost her temper
with you somewhat and judgment.
She tipped she was
on to you being a Pinkerton.
Oh, being bright, I expect you concluded
it was me must have told her,
meaning maybe I had sold over to her.
And with my allegiance now in question,
I expect you wired the Pinkerton big-shots,
arguing you oughtn't sign any documents
that might be able to prove
that you, the agency
and Mrs. Garret's fucking
in-laws hired me to lay
at Mrs. Garret's doorstep
the murder of her husband.
And further, Mr. Swearengen,
that as to purchase of your allegiance--
now in question-- they might wish
to keep the bidding open.
Bidding is open always
on everyone, Miss Isringhausen.
But I expect you understand,
knowing as I do,
should Mrs. Garret lose her claim,
rather than operate it themselves,
her cunt in-laws will sell
to third-party cocksuckers
inimical to the whole
of my interests in this camp!
To buy my allegiance against myself,
in-law cunts and shit-heel operators
would have to bid very high indeed.
No, more likely, Miss Isringhausen,
I think you'd contemplate
changing your allegiance
before I would mine.
What benefit would I consider
might accrue to me?
I intercepted your shit-heel boss's
message back to you,
through the miracle of telegraph
and it answers that very question.
As I have it here before me,
I will read it to you verbatim:
"Miss Isringhausen,
as this will save you great pain
and keep you from being killed,
sign all documents
Mr. Swearengen has drawn.
Take the $5,000 and disappear.
Yours sincerely, your boss,
Pinkerton Shit-Heels."
The $5,000 alluded to
in the invisible telegram,
can the money be produced?
Without, of course, exposing him
to the contents of the document,
I would want the sheriff
present at my signature
and as my escort from the camp.
I bet that can be arranged.
I can't betray the confidence
of messages.
Don't guarantee what
you'll never do, Blazanov,
not without imagining
your feet stuck to the fire.
(sighs)
- Blazanov: Sir--
- (clears throat)
I am a person whose parents
have been murdered,
and no other family connection
and feeling,
and believe in confidence
of messages.
What the fuck is all that
supposed to mean?
I hope...
feet in the fire
would not change me.
- Congratulations, Mr. Nuttall.
- Thank you, young man.
- How's the Boneshaker?
- Unshook.
Which would be
a fib to say about me.
(laughs)
I've come, Sheriff,
to ask what you've learned
of the shooting yesterday in my place.
Mose Manuel said his brother
killed himself by accident.
Uh, by accident?
Two hours before
Mose sells their claim--
that Charlie said they'd worked theirselves--
lock, stock and barrel
- to the Hearst interests?
- There's no witnesses, Tom.
Hurtful--
brother against brother
in a joint that bears my name--
the most recent hurtful event.
But might I ask William
to assist me in calibrating
the Boneshaker's handlebars?
Go ahead, William.
I don't know how
to calibrate handlebars, sir.
Tom:
Knowledge is overrated, William.
Diligence is what's required
in the service of a willing spirit.
(laughs)
Oh oh oh oh easy!
Easy, boy.
I use my right hand to pour.
(laughs)
Ellsworth: And then Mrs. Bullock
said as it's yours,
you might want to see
the safe installed.
- Did she?
- Yes, ma'am,
having brought the midday meal
as the safe arrived with the money inside.
And what did Mr. Bullock
say to Mrs. Bullock?
He said that might be a good idea.
With enthusiasm equaling yours
as you describe the moment?
I'd say on Mr. Bullock's part,
about equal enthusiasm,
Mrs. Garret, yes.
- Despite which Mrs. Bullock persisted?
- Yes.
Well, perhaps I oughtn't
to disappoint her.
Earlier when I asked what else
we might have to discuss,
I referred to my proposal.
I took that to be
your meaning at the time.
Chose not to respond?
Not to, yes, as I hadn't yet
made up my mind.
- Have you now?
- Nor have I now.
Would you have me decide now,
before I act on Mrs. Bullock's invitation?
Do you put me to those terms?
I guess there's no burning rush.
(clears throat)
Shall we go for a walk, Sofia?
Are you certain you won't join us?
Thank you.
I tend to forego the midday meal.
It occurred to me,
Mrs. Garret having reason
to be present in any case,
that we might discuss
in more formed a fashion
our plans for the children's schooling,
more constructively than
in some previous conversation.
- I'm delighted.
- Wonderful.
(clears throat)
Mr. Swearengen asked
to see you, Sheriff.
Not just now.
Tom: A man tying
the right rope to the frame
and the other end to a thunderhead
could use the machine to tow clouds.
William: I wish I was taller.
Well, when your legs lengthen,
I calculate you will be among
the great cloud haulers of the world.
Just to ride like you did
yesterday, Mr. Nuttall.
You should have seen your face.
The Bella Union Gap was
my crucible, William--
the fabled mud slick.
I shifted shoulders forward--
uh, not too much,
and at a sledge-trench, ho!
Swung my buttocks left, by God,
turned the bars just so,
thump!
The buried plank, bom!
And did I not come through a treat?
(both laugh)
Alma: Good afternoon.
- Good afternoon.
- Good afternoon.
Martha: Good afternoon,
Mrs. Garret.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Bullock.
Very good wishes on a venture
offering opportunity
to so many in the camp.
- Thank you.
- Hope.
For taking up the education
of the camp's children,
my Sofia included, thank you.
As I feel I expressed inadequately
when last we spoke.
- Bite of meat, Mrs. Garret?
- No, thank you.
That appears to be the safe.
William, do we dare ride double?
- I do if you do.
- I do!
Dauntless then!
Courage high to the sticking place,
and honor bright as I mount and circle
and consider the best way
to swoop you up.
- (laughs)
- Awaiting you here, sir.
Great.
Beautiful.
(laughs)
This all seems very much in order.
First depositor.
Uh, it's to witness some
wrist business, Sheriff.
Al said brief but
of crucial importance.
- How long will we be?
- Brief, very.
And you'd save me a beating.
(chuckles)
Excuse me.
Mose:
Get your head on it.
(Tess muffled)
My head is on it.
Cy:
Get your head on it, Tess!
Tess:
It's on it, Mr. Tolliver.
It does sound like a girl
with a mouthful, Mr. Manuel.
- Jesus Christ!
- Her tongue in her cheek
can achieve the same fucking effect.
- I require a conversation with the sheriff.
- Confess a crime.
You're fucking cheating me!
Get the fuck out from under there!
- I ain't cheating you, sir.
- Will you have another dealer, Mr. Manuel?
- Another fucking cheat?
- Hot and cold's the way the cards run, sir,
time immemorial.
I want it back. Give it back to me!
Give him his last wager, Leon.
We will call that one no bet.
Yes, sir, Mr. Tolliver.
All of it.
- Everything.
- Now I can't do that, Mr. Manuel,
as I believe you know.
And those rifles are
aimed at your head.
Everything!
Including youth, Mr. Manuel?
And why not beauty?
Not credibly restored, perhaps,
but as a new non-negotiable term?
Would you not have, too,
your brother Charlie resurrected?
Would you stipulate
your envy of him be purged?
Surely you'll insist that Charlie
retain certain defects--
his ineffable self-deceptions,
for example,
which were your joy in life to rebuke,
and purpose, so far as you had one.
I suppose you would see
removed those qualities
which caused you to love him,
and the obliviousness to danger
which allowed you to shed his blood.
I want to talk to Bullock!
Get the fucking doc!
I could have cooled that out.
On my order, Mr. Tolliver,
Lee will burn this building,
mutilating you before,
during or after as I specify,
or when he chooses unless I forbid.
Oh, my full attention
is at your disposal.
Tell Sheriff Bullock what transpired
here before getting the doc.
(wheezing)
- And now how many?
- Eight.
Sofia: Two portions of four.
Very good, Sofia.
May I have candy?
You ask a reward, Sofia,
for doing your numbers?
Where would you
get such an idea?
"Received from Trixie..."
The whore.
(gasps)
May I sign the first receipt?
Yes, please do.
Huzzah.
I'm to fetch Sheriff Bullock.
Sol:
He'll be back momentarily.
All right, let's go.
(clears throat)
- Steve: Ready, ready?
- Ready. Here we go.
Up! Up!
(groans, laughs)
William: We missed.
Trial run. No harm done at all.
Hey, swing around, Tom!
On my way!
- Hostetler: Tie off that leg rope.
- Don't you want to serve your country
as good as they been to you?
I bet you don't even vote.
Hold that leg rope!
- (horse whinnying)
- Fields: Whoa, hey, whoa!
Steve:
That's between us.
- Tell no one I give you that.
- I'd best not, but thank you.
You keep it a secret,
and you won't get into any trouble.
And if you told
I helped you on the bike,
that's between you and your father.
- (neighs)
- Oh shit!
(whinnies)
Fields: Hey!
- (neighs)
- (woman screams)
(shouting)
Steve:
I think my back's broke.
(woman humming)
♪ Mama's gonna
buy him a li'l lap dog ♪
♪ Mama's gonna buy him
a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Mama's gonna
buy him a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Put him in his lap
when she goes out ♪
♪ Come on, Pa,
sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa, sing hey hey ♪
♪ Go to sleep
and don't you cry ♪
♪ Mother's gonna give us
some apple pie ♪
♪ Come on, Pa, sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa,
sing hey hey ♪
♪ Mama's gonna buy him
a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Mama's gonna
buy him a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Mama's gonna buy him
a li’l lap dog ♪
♪ Put him in his lap
when she goes off ♪
♪ Come on, Pa,
sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa, sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa,
sing hey hey ♪
♪ Come on, Pa, sing hey hey ♪
(humming tune)
He's asleep now.