Deadwood (2004–2006): Season 3, Episode 11 - The Catbird Seat - full transcript

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(insects chirping)

(sighs)

(sighs)

Quiet.

I notice too, Stupid,
we're each of us

breathing in and out.

It's Bullock, Star, Utter,

and Trixie. And Harry Manning's
outside on a sorrel.

- What's the whore doing with 'em?
- I don't know.

They ain't fucking her.



Al:
What the fuck is afoot

in that hardware store?

Facing the dawn united,
we're even odds for disaster,

let alone in fuckin' factions.

Knowing him for an arrant maniac,

I'll still not believe Bullock doubts me.

(chuckles)
"Certain dangers meet to be faced

only by the decent and decorous"--
or idiocy of that fuckin' ilk

is what must have captured his thinking,
this fuckin' jerk.

I'm going over there.
I am going the fuck over.

Let them fucking try
to exclude me, huh?

You know, saying I like you hefty

don't mean you couldn't stand
losing a couple of fuckin' pounds.

(groaning)



- (Al's door closes)
- Oh! Ah.

Whatever you'd have me
scrutinize must wait

until certain cocksuckers
have received a piece of my mind.

- Of whom do you speak?
- Why are you walking backwards?

The ink's not yet dry and I'd have your
attention to the article, top right corner.

- Stop fuckin' moving then.
- Oh, thank you.

- How's the fuckin' ribs?
- Very painful.

- Yeah, right there.
- Yeah.

No rooms to let.

Only taking the air.

Well, go away.

I'm at prayer.

If that's not a lie
as I situate on the common,

what claim has your piety
on my deference?

Fuck yourself!

Fuck you, sir!

Who'd prevent expedition

of one's life's disarray.

Telegram for Mr. Swearengen.

A superfluous trumpeting,
Mr. Blazanov, as we three are alone.

Do I accomplish my purpose, Al,
as to the shooting at Mrs. Ellsworth?

Short of accusation, do I waft the odor
of complicity in Hearst's direction...

- Give me the telegram.
- ...to settle not only upon his clothing,

but as it were, on the man himself,

in the very fabric of his being?

- This is bullshit!
- I'm sorry.

"23 men hired,

all on our way."
This squaw-fuckin' idiot.

Proves in eight words
he's incompetent and a fuckin' liar.

He can't have got Adams' telegram
more than four hours ago,

yet he expects me
to believe that in four hours

he can prudently assess
the qualities of 23 hires.

And you know what
"on our way" means, huh?

No.

"On our way" means they're
getting drunk and blown

in some saloon in Cheyenne
and running their mouths about

this big fuckin' filibustering expedition
they've been commissioned for

under the command of the famous Hawkeye--
the laziest, most shit-faced

whore-mongering cocksucker
to ever piss my money away!

Please do not strike me.

Have you finished the article, Al?

That I have not wiped his expectoration

from my cheek is understandable.

I'm threatened with death if I do.

That I stand immobile these hours later

speaks of a flaw in my will.

Surely this is not
the culminating indignity.

There remains, for example,

receiving his regurgitations

or swallowing his feces!

Would I stand stoic

still?

I am going to fuck you up.

I'm gonna fuck you up.

And I'm the kind of cunt you'll let close.

Quit it, Richardson.

- Is it all right then, the article?
- Perfect.

Fuckin' wafts just the way you want it to.

I'll go ahead and publish then.

I gotta get to the fuckin'
hardware store!

(coughs)

- Jack.
- Young man.

At the soul's dark hour?

Name one that fuckin' ain't.

- Mr. Langrishe.
- Yes.

We're going in there, EB.

Shall I join you...

as we all seem up and about?

(farts)
Excuse me!

Gentlemen.
(clears throat)

Waiting for the sheriff.
We campaign in Sturgis.

(yawns)

Hmm.

A meeting, I gather, of the upper
fucking crust exclusively.

- No hoi polloi need apply.
- I ought to have called you.

What events in the camp would argue
I be called back from Sturgis,

- what we are trying to decide.
- It's not a meeting at all, per se.

Now I don't feel so horribly injured.

The meeting per se
is what he'll not be kept from.

Jack Langrishe. He's all right.

You showed perfect judgment, sir.

I'd keep from the camp
that your janissaries have arrived.

We'll quarter at your find.

- Will you drink?
- No, thank you.

I will.

Sol: Shall we leave it:
being generally vigilant,

under very specific circumstances
we'll wire you to make early return?

Yes. That's exactly it.

And those would be?

- Any further shooting out of the ordinary.
- Like at Mrs. Ellsworth, definitely.

- Hearst-initiated horseshit of any sort.
- Intimidation or the like.

If it looks to eventuate
in immediate violence.

Otherwise why try even to make it
to Sturgis for the speeches?

Hearst-initiated bullshit
is inevitable is his point.

Surely, sir, you leave
in the certain knowledge

that you are the camp's
irreplaceable man.

He don't need no further encouragement
in that way of thinking.

Comes to sending a wire,
I put that Russian ill at ease.

Sol:
Oh, I do all right with him.

My meetings--
I provide refreshments.

You were shown the tent
of the man I want killed first?

- Looked fine, how he wants to work it.
- Hearst: Ah.

(sighs)

(knocks on door)

- I'm leaving.
- Come in.

- It's too much. He's too cruel.
- Come in.

Brazenly sends the other packing,

to brazenly install her replacement
in the theater.

How was he brazen
with the one who left?

No one with eyes could
fail to recognize their connection.

- And now brazenly--
- Us recognizing his connection

to the one who left does not
mean he was brazen.

Fine.

Fine then.
I just came to say goodbye.

Must I agree he is brazen

for you to not leave the troupe?

(sobs)
He has no respect for art.

Claudia.

(sobbing)

- He hates me.
- No.

I was well-received in Denver.

Ja, very well received.

I could have stayed.

I could have let you all go on.

I think you were approached
by Millerick.

I was.

Go to sleep, Claudia.

No coaches now anyhow.

Did he suspect

Millerick approached me?

He doesn't miss much.

He misses everything.

(sighs)

I juggled at Amateur Night.

And what are you doing now?

Praying for my loved ones.

How nice. Lucky them.

Would my conversating with her

or lingering after supper

have disrupted
the little one's routine

on a day that had been
disrupted previous?

Yes.

Already she'd seen
a series of people taking up watch

to protect that schoolhouse.

And how many questions
must have occurred to her--

because that is a bright child.

"What is transpiring that
we need guarding from?"

And what memories
must that have brought back

of her own dear family murdered

in a sudden fake Indian depredation

by shit-heel fuckin' road agents.

Not solely how would I like

to be passing the evening, the like.

When I've left,

have I given the mother
more calming down to do

before she gets the child asleep?

Them's the sort of things

is what you have to consider.

(dog whimpers)

Fuck, must you hover,
fucking Merrick?

I admit to wondering, Al, if you have
any further impression of my article.

- Didn't I tell you how well it wafted?
- If on second reading--

Merrick, it's a good article.
It'll no doubt irritate him, fucking Hearst.

But I'm wakeful wondering
who he's likely to shoot at next,

so with regard to that I've gave
your article all the thought I need to.

Who do you think he might shoot at?

I have no fucking idea, Merrick.

I doubt it'll be long before we find out.

And in the fucking interval until we do,

I guess I'll just have
to abandon any prospect

of finding respite in any part of your rag
I could just fucking read

without having to evaluate
how it fucking wafts!

Oh, which leaves me

the solace of contemplating
the journeying hither

of the intrepid fucking Hawkeye
and his 23 fucking reprobates

to even the odds in the coming combat.
Didn't tell you that, did I, Adams?

Hawkeye's wired
to announce he's on his way.

Does that sound likely to you

or does it confirm our deepest doubts

about his incompetence and veracity?

And mine, in turn, about you
that I allowed to fucking vouch for him!?

Couldn't let him
read his fucking paper?

(Harry mumbling)

26...

27...

28.

Uh, not counting them soldiers
or Yankton's commissioner.

I won't be lingering once we've finished.

If you want to stay and politic,
you'll have to ride back alone.

I hate what happened in your home.

It's all right.

Your wife good enough
to ask me in for breakfast.

- I'm working on my presentation.
- That lovely woman

putting her hand
behind her for support

- when I feared she might fall to the floor.
- Won't you shut up about it?

And then, even if only briefly,
to have failed to acknowledge

it had been my wind, I'd--

What's your purpose here?

- What do you mean?
- There's no Sioux around here.

Shall I go find some,
ask 'em to join us?

I'm saying there's no fort
and there's no Sioux.

Why would they
have you bivouacked?

Seems like you got me
confused for a general.

(clears throat)

Don't be grazing by the windows.

Come in and listen
or stay the fuck out of sight.

I guess you got yourself
mistaken for a general.

Soldier: He wants to know
what we're here for.

We're here for the election.
Maybe gonna exercise a franchise.

(clears throat)

Time for us to speak now, Sheriff.

Have they told you yet
who you're voting for?

Not yet.

Sheriff, we--

Shut up, Harry.

(gasping)

Mr. Utter!

Mr.--

(crying)

(lock jiggling)

The key got stuck.

Ready for fucking Freddie?
Hearst let his dogs loose.

Davey, get to the Russian.
Tell him to wire Sturgis.

Say to wire Bullock as agreed, huh?

- (sobbing) I want my child.
- I'll-- I'll go get her now.

Mrs. Ellsworth, I'll go--
Mr. Ellsworth's been shot.

- Mr. Ellsworth's been killed.
- I want my child!

She'll be here with you before
you know it, Mrs. Ellsworth.

- Oh, what did I do to him?
- We'll go upstairs, get you a drink.

What did I do to that poor man?

You didn't fucking shoot him.

And don't be going off
into fucking hysterics, huh?

Collect your child. Utter will be
back with her here any minute.

Come on.

I'm going to make her breakfast.

Pinchbeck motherfucker.

My goodness!
Bare-breasted. My word.

Who has commissioned
such behavior?

Who summons you
with such power to do his will?

Trixie:
Mr. Hearst? Mr. Hearst?

(gunshot)

Did someone interrupted
your rendezvous?

Did someone else attack him?

Cover those things.

(grunts)

Give me your fucking poot-butt gun.

- Why?
- Fucking shoot me with it if you don't.

- What's going on, Trixie?
- Ellsworth's murdered,

and I fucking shot Hearst
and I don't think I killed him!

Shoot me or he'll do for all of us.

- Shoot me! Shoot me!
- Shh.

- Don't you fucking take me anywhere!
- Shut up!

Cy:
Stand the fuck up!

I piss hard-stole money away

to gussy you fucking cunts up.

Starchy bullshit.

We fucking pretend
there's a difference

between fat-ass snatch
and fat-ass snatch in a fucking petticoat!

Come on, Mr. T--

Where are we going,
you rummy-faced piece of shit?!

I'm just saying--

Just saying what?
What were you just saying?

I don't know, sir.

Weren't you being
this fat twat's gallant?

Ain't Con the nuts, fatso?

Ain't it great to have a fucking beau?

I'm Seth Bullock.

In Montana I had a hardware business
with my partner Sol Star,

and we do the same in Deadwood,

which we came to in '76.

I was Marshal
and Territorial Delegate in Montana,

and I'm Health Commissioner
and Sheriff where we are now.

With the Hills now part
of the new territory,

I run for Sheriff
of the new organized county.

If elected, my intention's
to look to the good

and safety of people hereabouts.

I will venture my life that
law-abiding persons will be secure

in their rights and their property.

I have to go.

(audience murmuring)

What is it, Bullock?
What happened?

Don't you know? Have they just
got you handling the votes?

The voting exclusively.

He's dead. Dead!

And at my hands!

- Or the next thing to it.
- Who?

- Hearst!
- He's dead?

- I think.
- Boss!

Excuse me.

The gimp's making
breakfast for you,

if you ain't et yet-- Jewel.

- Where was he hit?
- I don't know. Trixie shot him.

- Dan: Boss!
- Trixie said she killed him?

EB said Trixie killed Hearst!

- You saw him dead?
- No.

(sighs)
How bad was he hurt?

- I'm not sure.
- How bad did Trixie say he was hurt?

If he wasn't hurt, wouldn't I have
seen him pursue her?

What you mean is she might not
have fucking shot him at all!

Four steps removed.
No fucking closer.

Boss.

- Or w-wouldn't he have?
- Johnny: Wouldn't he have what?

Al: Shut up, EB.

- I'm a dead man.
- You ain't gonna be alone.

- Trixie: I've made this fucking walk before.
- All right.

- Stay here till I get him.
- Then you get out!

Get out with your hovering
and fucking clucking!

(door closes)

Before hell breaks fucking loose.

Trixie's here, in back.

Your idea, her coming here?

My fucking idea,
after she did what she did.

Was it your idea to have her do that?

All right.

Loopy fucking cunt.

Mother's upstairs.

Get out of the fucking way, Jewel.

- Here, let me take it up.
- No, you fucking won't.

Oh, for Christ's sake.

Mr. Utter's come with the child.

(Sofia crying)

Getting another plate.

(whispering) Mr. Utter said only that
Sofia's mother had requested her at The Gem.

Rely that something
fucked has transpired...

with Mose God knows where,

and me likely needed in camp.

- Uh, go ahead, Jane.
- I'll stay with Mrs. Bullock.

Trouble jumps off, ring the bell.
That'll bring me fucking running.

All right.

Or I guess maybe I'll just stay instead.

Doc:
I suppose there's some connection

between his condition and yours.

That bare-breasted woman who shot me
seemed to think there ought to be.

(groans) Shit!

Go ahead,

knowing I'd appreciate
less enthusiasm.

(groans)

Through the years, that fellow's path
and mine crossed several times.

I never meant him
a moment's harm,

but the natural operation
of my holdings

and his bad luck brought me
to figure in his imagination

as some sort of bogey.

(groans)

I expect my attacker

was a bawd connected
somehow to the man in back

before he married so luckily.

Likely, she fell victim, as he did,
to imagining me responsible

for the change in her situation.

(straining)
God damn it!

Often, because our
interests are extensive,

people like me are believed
the authors of events

which may benefit

our holdings,

when our connection
in fact is incidental.

God damn it!

(grunts)

(laughs)
Whew, ahh.

I have some calls to make.

Will your gunmen let me pass?

Of course.

Don't you want dress the wound?

My name is Josiane.

Mr. Langrishe was so generous

to say he would install me
today in the theater.

Sit down, dear.

Oh! We are waiting for him.

One of our chief occupations.

Langrishe:
Mr. Farnum!

Ah, good day, sir.

Mr. Farnum, a little while ago

I heard what I took

for a gunshot--

an impression I remark
not on the grounds of its uniqueness,

but for the shot having
seemed to issue from so near

to my recumbent ear...

You are not mistaken, sir.

...the hallway, that is to say,

separated from where I rested
only by a wall

whose thinness you've no doubt heard

others before me deplore.

The walls do thicken in our west wing.

I'll have a quick look for vacancies.

Hearst shot;

the wound, alas, not mortal.

"No help," as we say at the tables.

Booth never went you better.

Anon anon, sir. Anon anon.

God damn it, Richardson.

You're too ugly to be sneaking up
on fucking people.

From Mrs. Marchbanks.

We got all the fucking food we need.

Who the fuck is
Mrs. Marchbanks anyway?

It's Aunt Lou.

I guess I'd know her for Mrs. Marchbanks

if she took time to introduce herself.

Tell the arrogant nigger thanks.

No hurry returning the basket.

Tell her my fucking name's
Miss Caulfield...

I think.

The terms come clear.

If she'd keep her property here,

she'll leave,

having first hired
as many as Hearst has

and who can kill as well as his do,
and ain't disadvantaged too

to keep Hearst from killing her,
which by the shots yesterday

and Ellsworth butchered today

means her to understand Hearst
will not cease endeavoring to do.

But if she'd herself stay in camp,

she must sell her property to him.

A very pithy rendering.

(whispers)
I want to feel his beard.

Mr. Ellsworth's

with God now, Sofia.

I want to feel his beard so I can pray
that he's saying goodbye to me.

Duck duck duck

duck duck.

- Goose.
- Class: Go, James, go!

Go, James, go!
Go, James, go!

Go, James!

Class: Yay!

Aw. Outflanked by a boy
half my size.

Next time I'll get you, James.

Ellsworth's murdered,
head-shot at the Garret find.

Your partner's sweetheart
put one in Hearst's shoulder.

- Where's Mrs. Ellsworth?
- Above with the child.

- With the child.
- I fucking heard ya.

He once had something to do with her.

Reason for his making the case she sell,
keep her here for another swing.

Reason ain't his long suit.

(gasps)

(sobbing)

(Doc coughing)

Bullet removed uneventfully.

Let's pray he avoids infection.

What did Hearst say of the shooting?

That some bawd
still connected to Ellsworth

must have blamed him for the murder.

Wrongheaded and fallen
in the bargain.

Would you find pretext to let
the mother know I'm here?

- Bullock's with her.
- Shall I shout out and ask it of him?

Very much in your line, this type thing?

Yes.

Not to my taste at all.

Times past, one's fled.

(knock on door)

Doc's here. Someone fell.

Will you excuse me
for a moment, darling?

I want to see Mr. Ellsworth.

Excuse me.

(grunting)

(humming)

Are you certain

that she saw her family dead?

Yes.

I certainly assume she did.

The man I once was, Al,

was not formidable,

and I am but his shadow now,

and yet I'd be put to use.

A decoy, perhaps.

A weight to drop

on villains from above.

As I heard the account,

the child was found inside

a hollowed-out tree trunk

some distance from the others.

Having crawled from the carnage

and hidden herself,

I'd always assumed.

See, I suppose,

rather than Sofia crawling

unseen from the carnage,

the possibility might exist

that the family hid her in the tree trunk

and then fled that distance

before the murderers fell upon them.

For the child to have been found

having been savaged by wolves,

those hours later

by strangers,

and then taken away

having never seen

her family again,

living or dead...

(sniffs)

I can fix that.

Slainte.

Thought you was
near pitching a tent

and setting up housekeeping
over on that first step.

(snickers)

You sound like a pig
my cousin run off with.

Get another?

If that cocksucker
hadn't shareholders,

you could murder him
while you adjusted his back.

Serpent's teeth-- shareholders.

10,000 would rise to replace him.

All right, darling.
All right.

- Monitor my thinking, Jack.
- Oh, no warrant as to competence.

Had Hearst wanted this woman killed,
she'd be dead already.

Agree. The husband's murdered
to coerce her to sell.

Al: For the moment,
the child's safe too, huh?

- Pending the mother's decision-- agree.
- Safe then to let 'em go, huh?

I would, sir.
Yes.

Gonna take Mrs. Ellsworth home.

As you think best.

I wish to thank you again,
Mr. Swearengen.

We are all very grateful.

Trixie's with Star at his place.
No one knows but Shaunessey,

who lives in fucking terror of me, huh?

Passages between their places
only Shaunessey knows.

Heartfelt condolences, madam.

I get to see Mr. Ellsworth tomorrow.

Very good, young lady.

God bless.

You take care of them, Bullock.
Leave the other to me, huh?

Oh, Bullock, you might want
to stand guard outside her place.

- I'll take Charlie as backup.
- No, Hearst ain't gonna be coming for her,

but to bring the matter home as grave.
It'd make a case for her selling her claim

not to jeopardize the tranquility
of your own hearth.

Thank you for looking to them.

Nimbleness, lad, dexterity.

I'd prefer Hearst's advantage at arms.

True true.

The world is less than perfect.

The camp is galvanized.

People scurry about.

They've tasks to perform.

They feel important.

I oughtn't to work in these places.

I was not born to crush my own kind.

Right with you, Wu.
In there. In there.

First door.

Yeah, in there.

When he leaves, them that ain't
lining this fucking hallway

like he's the tallest, best-looking
white man ever got fucking lucky

better prepare
for a fucking beating.

Wu, Custer City,

brings back all his Chinks

the fuck back to Deadwood.

Wu...

back Deadwood?

Brings all his Chinks back, huh?

Wu, Custer City,

back Deadwood!

(speaks Chinese) Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday,

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday!
10 day, Swedgin!

I am sorry, Wu.
I'm sorry I made you wait.

But I want you to bring them now.

While you're about your journey,

I'll be trying to conceive some
practical use for your countrymen's arrival

besides seeming to swell our ranks.
Oh, we'll give 'em guns, yeah?

We'll provide 'em with guns, so any of
the slant-eyed bastards know what one is,

or, perish the thought, know how to use one--
we'll enhance our prospects.

Guns.

Chung Kuo.

Wu, Custer City, back Deadwood,

150 Chung Kuo cocksucker, Swedgin.

Shut the fuck up, Wu.

Heng dai.

Heng dai.

Heng dai, fucking Wu.

Big man.

Wu-- big man.

Rouse him to spend on pussy,

or rob the son of a bitch.

Ah!

♪ Now I could see blood running ♪

♪ Through the streets ♪

♪ Now I could see blood running ♪

♪ Through the streets ♪

♪ Could see everybody ♪

♪ Laying dead right at my feet ♪

♪ Give me gunpowder ♪

♪ Give me dynamite ♪

♪ Give me gunpowder ♪

♪ Give me dynamite ♪

♪ Yes, I'd wreck the city ♪

♪ Wanna blow it up tonight. ♪