Deadwood Transcript: Season 2 Episode 20

"Childish Things"

(Open at the Gem, Al and Seth are sitting in the barroom. Dan is watching from behind the bar. There's a hoople, drunk and leaning on the bar.)

Al: What did you know about me, Bullock, first we met? No concern for my feelings, huh?

Seth: That you were a killer.

Al: Certain facts show in the mug. (Looks over at Dolly, passing by) Look at her. You know she's fucked for food.

Seth: What's the point?

Al: In your mug there's no such history. Are you a cunt-driven near-maniac or stalwart, driven by principle? The many cannot tell, for you yourself are so fuckin' confused. But you do make a good appearance, so they're prone to grant you their trust, which we will use as an asset in the comin' campaign. (Drinks)

Seth: What's the campaign?

Al: You have friends in Montana in high positions, some type fuckin' judge? (Dan watches)

Seth: I've cut ties with the judge in Montana.

Al: Amiably or owin' money?

Seth: Maybe you're mistrusted less as a killer than showin' your cards a corner at a time.

Al: Our cause is surviving, not bein' allied with Yankton or cogs in the Hearst machine, to show it don't fate us as runts, or two-headed calves or pigs with excess legs, to a good fuckin' grindin' up. I only mention the judge in Montana toward maybe drummin' up interest in us there.

Seth: Annexation to Montana instead of Dakota?

Al: Hikin' our skirts to Helena might put Yankton back on its heels. And as minutes turn to hours over the piss-pot, I wonder, should we ruminate publicly in loud voices over formin' a new territory with an eye towards future statehood, or even our own republic?

Seth: No dictatorship?

Al: What the fuck do we need a dictatorship for, that silences the public voice, that eases the enemy's way? Noise made, overtures to outside interests and enlistment of the hooples' participation is what this situation demands. And a trustworthy mug with a vague motive out there, buglin' the call.

Seth: I'm not interested.

Al: (Leans forward) Our moment permits interest in one question only: will we, of Deadwood, be more than targets for ass-fucking? To not grab ankle is to declare yourself interested. What's your posture, Bullock?

Seth: (He doesn't move) As you see.

Al: (Smiles) Huzzah then.

(Al toasts Seth, and at the sound of "huzzah", the drunk hoople at the bar turns and joins the toast)

(Bella Union, Wolcott is alone at a table composing a letter George Hearst. We hear him reading the letter, while we see the mining operations he discusses.)

Wolcott: "The operations of the old Aurora and Keet's mines and a number of smaller adjoining claims are now entirely consolidated, accessed through the former Hidden Treasure property. Anxious as I know you to be, Mr. Hearst, to move to 24-hour operation, until workers at wage outnumber individual prospectors in the camp, the matter of Chinese labor remains delicate of introduction. And we must therefore rest content with Germans and Cornish unwilling to work at night. We shower them after every shift, and the gold they've combed into their hair with grease, we recover from the traps installed beneath the wash-house facility. The Cornish are quicker than the Germans, but ever ready to combine and complain, and deserve their reputation as high-graders, which, if anything, is understated." (We see the miners being walked through a shower, naked. The security people beat a miner who does not comply quickly enough)

Supervisor: Get down!

Wolcott: "Through the vigilance of our security fellows, the unremitting larceny of these cunning and clannish men is held somewhat in check. I cite in particular the effectiveness of Captain Turner, invaluable to us since the Comstock."

Supervisor: Watch it! (One miner is being cavity searched, and a nugget is found)

Wolcott: "With purchase of the claim formerly operated by the Manuel brothers, we will control save one—the Garret property—every considerable deposit now discovered."

Supervisor: Get back in line!

Wolcott: "I am told your arrival is imminent, Mr. Hearst. I look forward to showing you every aspect of what I believe soon may be truthfully described as the largest and most forward-looking gold operation in the world. Francis Wolcott." (The discovered thief bolts and runs, and is shot in the back by Capt Turner)

(As Wolcott finishes his letter, Doc Cochran is reporting to Cy on the state of the whores. Wolcott observes the conversation.)

Doc: No one is with child. Tessie may have clap.

Cy: We'll take her off the firin' line then.

Doc: With whatever intervening supervision, I take it these new-arrived Chinese whores to be under your control.

Cy: Well-evaluated, Doc.

Doc: Well, I'd be available to see to their care like I do these here.

Cy: (Puts his hand on Doc's arm) Declined with thanks.

Doc: You may not be aware that beyond their afflictions, (angry) these girls are fuckin' starving to death.

Cy: I ain't one, Doc, holds the white man's as the sole and only path. I strive to tolerate what I may not agree with. But those people's culture, their women are disposable. They-they ship 'em unfed, replace 'em when they expire. They dose 'em with opium, I know, which I gather eases their pangs.

Doc: Well... under this arrangement, I'll withdraw my care for your whites.

Cy: For Christ's sake, Doc!

Doc: No, I need to live too! (yelling)

Cy: Raise your rates on these then. Don't disrupt the other fuckin' equilibrium.

Doc: (quieter now) I would see to those others pro bono.

Cy: I know what that means. Prove to me you do.

Doc: It won't cost ya anything.

Cy: Well, Jesus Christ. (Draws in breath) Here, too, let me tolerate a different point of view.

(Doc leaves, banging his case against Wolcott's chair on his way out.)

(In the street, a stagecoach has arrived. Two men lift down a large bicycle into the eager arms of Tom Nuttall. Al, from the balcony, sees the arrival.)

Al: Studying on a getaway, Tom?

Tom: Ain't she a beauty, Al?

Merrick: Uh, in the French, it's called a velocipede, meaning "Go Swiftly into the World."

Tom: This is the Gent's Boneshaker model, and the French can stay the fuck out of it.

Johnny: (To Al, from below) How's that for a contraption, Boss?

Al: Summon from Farnum that cunt with the long kraut moniker.

Johnny: E.B. ain't been over for coffee.

Al: Should I ask if Farnum's come for coffee before I get you to summon that cunt? (Johnny goes, Al looks down at the box sitting next to him on the balcony.) Dead and without a body, you still outstrip him for intelligence.

(A man with a handlebar moustache calls down, in a Russian accent, to Tom Nuttall and A.W. Merrick from the top of the stagecoach.)

Blazanov: Would you please know Mr. A.W. Merrick? (Nuttall points to A.W. Merrick over his bike.)

Merrick: Uh—I'm A.W. Merrick.

Blazanov: Good. (He gets down) I'm-uh-Blazanov, agent for Cheyenne and Black Hills Telegraph Company.

Merrick: Welcome, Mr. Blazanov!

Blazanov: Thank you, Can you show me immediately to my apparatus?

Merrick: (Shaking his finger, turning to Tom) Our long-anticipated telegraph operator. Your company, having leased space for you in my office, your apparatus, Sir, is next to mine, and I will show it to you with pleasure. This way.

(A.W. leads Blazanov toward his office as Tom wheels his bike around. A crowd has gathered to look at the bike)

Blazanov: Has my apparatus been-- (A.W. leads him around the quagmire) Thank you—been guarded from interference?

Merrick: Uh, in candor, Mr. Blazanov, some nights more successfully than others.

Al: (Looking down from the balcony) There's a fuckin' pair to draw to.

Blazanov: I hope the electrical fluid has not blistered with fierce voltage someone foolish to ground its potential.

Merrick: I'm not aware of any blistering, and my hopes in that regard may be different from yours. (He opens the office door.)

Tom: (William has come over to look at the bike) Did you see my bicycle, young man?

William: They call that type boneshaking, Sir.

Tom: They do, for a mortal truth. (laughs)

(Martha gently pulls William away from the bike as Tom straddles his bike. Al takes his package back inside.)

(Ellsworth is sitting outside his tent at the Garret mine, talking to the dog)

Ellsworth: Look at it this way then. Mightn't the Lord give second chances? Not on merit, necessarily. I ain't claimin' that. Say he does it on whim, on any basis. And here she comes with that little one beside her and another she fixes to produce. And keenness to my shortcomings don't blind me to seein' a-right that when a boulder needs haulin', I will haul a boulder — which is asset to a woman with a child in her care and another she readies to deliver. Now what harm is there in believin' that not takin' the chance might be a confoundin' of his will? Hmm? I'm takin' that silence for fuckin' support.

(Alma's room, Martha has knocked at the door, Alma opens it, a smile on her face.)

Alma: Mrs. Bullock.

Martha: Thank you so much for seeing us.

Alma: Good morning, William.

William: Good morning, Mrs. Garret.

Alma: Please, come in. (She steps aside, Sofia waiting behind her. William enters, followed by Martha.)

William: It smells awful nice in here.

Alma: We had berry tea before Sofia's lesson. (She closes the door, looks to Martha) Will you have some?

Martha: Please, if it's not a trouble.

William: I don't want any, thank you. I didn't know the smell was from tea.

Alma: (To Sofia) Will you show William your corner in our other room, Sofia? (Sofia starts to walk, Alma stops her) Not your toys. Show him only your books.

William: Thank you. (Looks up at his mom, she nods) And thank you for the candy when I first got to camp.

(William and Sofia head to the corner, Martha and Alma walk into the bedroom, Alma closing the doors partway behind them.)

Martha: Please, forgive the suddenness of my coming.

Alma: Not at all, Mrs. Bullock.

Martha: I feel an urgency about the matter which brings me.

Alma: (Stops just as she is looking into an empty teapot, they both sit) Please tell me what it is.

Martha: You know that Miss Stokes, the teacher for whom we had waited so long—

Alma: Has fled.

Martha: Yes. (They laugh)

Alma: A great disappointment to me, as I'm sure it was to you.

Martha: Mmm-hmm. I hope I'm... adequate to guiding my son's studies—I believe I am. But a child in solitude cannot find his gift for society.

Alma: What do you propose?

Martha: That I teach the camp's children.

(Alma smiles, gets up and walks to the stove, trying to light it. She drops all the matches then sighs, looks over to Martha and back.)

Alma: The water is usually brought from the kitchen, already at a boil.

Martha: Please don't bother with the tea.

Alma: It's no bother. It would hardly be a bother, if I were only properly prepared. (She gives up and shuts the stove) On a second opportunity with adequate notification, we will meet you in order and readiness.

Martha: (Stands) I seem always to come upon you with inadequate notice.

Alma: As you remarked, simple courtesy would forestall that.

Martha: I'm trying to imagine what courtesy of mine would have forestalled the last awkwardness between us.

Alma: (Takes a few steps forward) Do you wish then to take Sofia under your care as well?

Martha: As well as whom, Mrs. Garret?

Alma: Why, Mrs. Bullock, as well as your son. Whom else would I mean?

(Martha stands quietly)

(Al's office, he is opening the door to Miss I)

Al: Good morning.

Alice: Good morning, Mr. Swearengen. (She enters, brushing up against him in her hurry) Excuse me. Change of light.

Al: Pupils slow adjustin'—hope that don't owe to morphine.

Alice: No.

Al: Anyhow, thanks for brushin' against my prick.

Alice: May I sit down? (Al walks to his desk, motioning to a chair for her to sit. He takes out a bottle.)

Al: Too early for you?

Alice: I don't time my drinking. (She sits)

Al: Dan! (He sits, Dan enters, shutting the door.) 50,000, now to me. Mr. Dority signs for the murder of Brom Garret on my orders as commissioned by his faithless wife. (Dan looks confused) Second document, signed by you, detailin' that during transport to New York for trial along with faithless wife, Dority escapes custody. 50 now to me, 10 now you to Dority, 10 now you to Adams.

Alice: Agreed, with these amendments: 25 to you on signatures; on Dority's safe return following his escape, and by your giving over the document signed by me to an agent designated by Pinkerton, or burning it in the agent's presence, the second 25.

Al: (Tilts his head) Agreed.

Alice: Will you draft Dority's confession?

Al: I'll draft both fucking documents. (Drinks) Now would you find your own way out while I explain myself to the guilty party?

(She gets up to leave, Dan follows her to the door.)

Dan: You wanna brush agin' my prick?

(She opens the door and leaves. Dan shuts the door, looking at Al.)

Al: Got a good fuckin' head on her shoulders, unlike some other parties in this room (looking over at the package.)

(Nuttall's Saloon, he's excited, brushing his bike down with a towel, surrounded by hooples)Man: That's some kind of contraption he's got there.

Rutherford: Do you suppose had the inventor moved among us, he'd have made a model more suited to sinkholes?

Tom: Oh, guided an pedaled a-right, she'll roll smooth as a ball on a green. (A hoople reaches for the handles, Tom slaps his hand) Ah! Yours ain't the fuckin' hands or the fuckin' feet. (The crowd laughs, A.W. & Blazanov enter.)

Blazanov: So this is the famous place of death.

Merrick: (pointing) At that very table, Mr. Blazanov. Wild Bill Hickok was shot.

Blazanov: I've read the account, perhaps from your hand?

Tom: My bicycle masters boardwalk and quagmire with aplomb. Those that doubt me suck cock by choice. (Tom crosses his arms, looking at the Rutherford, everyone laughs.)

Rutherford: Does that signal a willingness to wager?

Tom: You're goddamn right, in specie or fucking currency.

Rutherford: Surely odds must differ between quagmire and boardwalk.

Tom: I don't speak of the quagmire lengthwise.

Rutherford: Well, shall quagmire be the Bella Union gap of the main thoroughfare?

Tom: Done.

Rutherford: Eight to one odds on the quagmire.

Tom: I shall swoop across it. Uh—eight to one taken to 100.

Rutherford: Even money on the boardwalk.

Tom: Done! Taken to 100. Loose boards to be nailed, (A.W. whispers to a smiling Blazanov) commerce suspended, animals, drunks and sundries cleared from my lane of passage.

Rutherford: Done.

Merrick: May I have time to ready my camera, Tom?

Tom: Uh, get going.

Merrick: I'll make fresh plates and new stop-bath.

Tom: Whatever the fuck that means.

Merrick: Come, Mr. Blazanov.

Blazanov: What has just happened?

Merrick: Come, come, come.

Tom: Those who doubt me suck cock by choice! (The crowd laughs)

Man: I'll bet $6.00 he don't make it down the boardwalk!

(The hooples all rush to place bets)

(Bullock house, Seth is arriving for lunch. Martha is in the kitchen.)

Martha: I had time only to make cold meat sandwiches after seeing Mrs. Garret.

Seth: Fine.

Martha: There's cold cider in the cellar. (Sets a plate down on the table)

Seth: I'll get it.

Martha: She thought it wonderful I that should teach the camp's children.

Seth: Good.

Martha: Wonderful. (She looks upset, turns to the stove) That poor woman. (turns) Husband killed, left alone. (Looks to Seth) Any person would have found her situation sympathetic, let alone someone of your instincts. (Seth clenches, not able to look at her. She turns back to the stove) Mr. Nuttall has received a bicycle.

Seth: Has he?

Martha: William was very excited to see it.

Seth: Good.

Martha: Your food is ready. He's out back waiting. William is.

(She opens the door and leaves, Seth pauses, opens the cellar door)

(Jane is puking outside the freight office. Some men take notice and get up from the bench outside the freight building at the same time that Charlie approaches.)

Charlie: That's mighty good for bidness.

Jane: Shut up!

Charlie: There's a girl sitting by herself in that whorehouse—Joanie Stubbs. (Jane throws a bucket of water on the puke to wash it, sorta, away.)

Jane: Next you see her, (Charlie grabs the bucket, finishing the job for her) give her my congratulations.

Charlie: Seeing you know about losin' friends, you might be a good person to go on and talk to her.

Jane: How does standing in my own puke prompt you to volunteer me to give a condolence call?

Charlie: Why fuckin' wouldn't it, Jane? You like bein' situated how you are? (Jane eyes Charlie)

Jane: What fuckin' friends did she lose anyway?

(Hardware store, Trixie is working her numbers, Seth just arrives and hangs up his coat.)

Sol: How are Martha and William?

Seth: Well.

(Trixie eyes Seth as he hangs his hat on the desk in front of her. She takes a deep breath & goes back to her numbers. Seth walks over to the counter, opening a ledger book.)

Sol: What would you think of Marcus's lot, Seth, as location for the bank?

Seth: I could see arguments in favor.

Sol: He's going back to Bismarck. Asking 14,000, 10 of which he'd carry at 1% a month, which I find reasonable. (Seth nods) Obviously, the location is its great virtue.

Seth: Under all the circumstances, I disagree. (Closes the ledger book, walking away.)

Sol: Too central?

Seth: Not too central, no. I'm thinking more the chief backer might find unpleasant this building being always in her view.

Sol: I see.

Seth: Anything further you need explained chapter and verse?

Sol: I hadn't understood the matter continued so tender.

Seth: It ain't tenderness, avoiding provocation. It's common fuckin' courtesy.

Trixie: Which neither of you's showin' fuckin' much toward me.

Sol: It's over. (Walking behind the counter) It's finished!

(Bella Union, Mose Manual, a huge man, enters. Wolcott and Cy are seated, watching him approach the bar.)

Cy: You've got the worst brother—Mose—as ugly as he is, that miserable a disposition. (Cy gets up, approaching the bar.) Mr. Manuel, how are you, Sir?

Mose: Fuck you, Tolliver, your crooked games and your watered-down liquor. (Drinks)

Wolcott: Francis Wolcott, Mr. Manuel. (Extending hand) Thank you for coming. (Mose stands his ground)

Mose: State your business.

Wolcott: An admirable rigor in manner. Would you join me, please? (Motions up to his table. Mose slaps a couple coins on the bar for his drink, glares at Cy as he goes to join Wolcott.) Ahh... do I guess rightly, Sir, that you and your brother do not deal happily with groups of men?

Mose: Nor each other.

Wolcott: Yet you have made a rich find and have done very well in beginning it's development.

Mose: State your business.

Wolcott: Further development may require organization on a scale and dealings with men to which you and your brother are not suited or not disposed to attempt.

Mose: With thieving bastard Cornishmen, you mean. Underground in the shafts, (Wolcott nods) high-graders, every one of 'em.

Wolcott: The interests I represent have learned to deal effectively over the years with high-grading and other forms of theft by employees.

Mose: You ain't learned no effective method when it's my brother going against you.

Wolcott: Against us in what sense?

Mose: (very irritated) In all five fucking senses.

Wolcott: (remains calm) More reason you and he might sever connections toward taking separate paths.

Mose: (less irritated, still more or less yelling) I'm sittin' here, ain't I?

Wolcott: We would offer 200,000 for an undivided ownership on your claim.

Mose: We'd both have to fucking sell?

Wolcott: I'd presume your brother has stays and encumbrances on your right to separate sale.

Mose: He's encumbered every fucking breath I've ever fucking taken. 200,000?

Wolcott: Would it expedite matters if I made our case to your brother?

Mose: (standing, yelling again) I'll make the fucking case, once I find the saloon he's in. (Goes to leave, Cy looks on alarmed)

Wolcott: He should understand that our patience is not inexhaustible.

Mose: (more irritated) Did I say I thought that?

Wolcott: No.

Mose: Don't tell me how to talk to my brother!

Wolcott: Certainly not.

Mose: Unless you're trying to fucking irritate me!

Wolcott: Opposite of my intention.

Mose: (Walks back to Wolcott, quiet now) 200,000?

Wolcott: Cash. (Mose leaves.)

(Alma's room, she is looking out the window and appears to be stewing about something. Suddenly she turns and heads for the door. Sophia is sitting quietly. Alma goes next door to Miss I's room and knocks. Miss I answers)

Alice: Mrs. Garret.

Alma: Why do you linger? The stages are frequent, and you're past your stated purpose. Have you another?

Alice: Please, Mrs. Garret, do come in. (Alma enters slowly) Do you believe I do?

Alma: My beliefs about you have to do with your soul, which I feel is cold and ungenerous, unless you are a counterfeit. And if you are a counterfeit, the deception comes so naturally, I'd credit its source in such a soul—meaning cold and ungenerous, and as capable of counterfeit—manipulative and treacherous as well.

Alice: (feigning surprise) Who can you think I am, Mrs. Garret? I, a poor working girl?

Alma: You are not.

Alice: (mocking her now) I only hope your high wroth, Ma'am, don't bespeak some affair gone amiss... (steps very close) I hope to Christ not involving Mr. Bullock.

(Alma reaches to slap Alice, Alice catches her wrist firmly and speaks coldly) Even under such duress, you oughtn't presume to strike me. (Pulls Alma closer, by the wrist) For who do you take me then? For who do you mistake me?

Alma: I mistake you for no one, Miss Isringhausen, and I know you for a fact.

Alice: All right then, Mrs. Garret. (very menacing now) You've had your fit of temper. Get the fuck back to your room.

(She releases Alma and opens the door for her, eyeing Alma coldly. Alma walks out, Alice slams the door behind her.)

(On the street, Tom is oiling the wheels on his bike, a crowd is gathering. We see Charlie, Martha, Sol & Trixie all come out to watch. Richardson looks around, excited. He runs inside the hotel to the redhead behind the desk.)

Richardson: How's his toothache?

Redhead: I ain't requirin' about his toothache, Richardson. And you oughtn't be requirin' about his toothache either. You ought to be hoping that his nibs will be sleeping, so we can both sneak away and go watch the ride. (Richardson heads for EB's private room) What are you—what are you--? You stupid—

Richardson: (Knocks on the door, E.B. is inside, passed out and gagging.) Mr. Farnum, are you in there? I need your permission, Mr. Farnum. (E.B. gagging) I'm coming in. (He pushes the door in. E.B. is choking now) What's killing you? (Sticks his fingers down E.B.'s throat, causing E.B. to stir and spit out some gauze.) What's afflicting you? (Pours pitcher of water on E.B.'s head)

EB: Stop it. For God's sake, get away from me! (Pushes Richardson away as he stands up) I put clove-soaked cloth to my tooth. I must have gagged on it—(snorts) when I was napping.

Richardson: Are you saved, Sir?

EB: Your filthy hand was down my throat! (He pushes Richardson's hand down.)

Richardson: May I go out to watch the bicycle?

EB: Watch the earth yielding up it's dead, so long as it's not near me. (Pushes Richardson away) And never violate my private office again! (He pushes Richardson out the door and closes it, causing a bunch of antlers to fall on his head.) That cocksucker.

(Al's office, Dan is approaching outside and hears Al talking inside. He stops and listens at the door.)

Al: What do you think of that, Chief? Some kind of fuckin' division of feelin' or somethin'? (Dan knocks) Yeah!? (Dan opens the door, looking around.)

Dan: If I'm overstepping, Boss, I apologize.

Al: I'm waitin'. (Dan sits, holding his hat.)

Dan: Sometimes I hear you speakin' in here when I know there's nobody in here but you.

Al: You have not yet reached the age, Dan, have you, where you're moved to utterance of thoughts properly kept silent?

Dan: Been known to mutter.

Al: Not the odd mutter. Habitual fuckin' vocalizing of thoughts best kept to yourself. I will confide further. Lately... I talk to this package. (Dan smiles at the package) The severed rotting head I paid bounty on last year of that murdered fuckin' Indian. (Dan stands, still smiling, but looks a little alarmed)

Dan: Well, anyways, it's the late shift. (Puts his hat on and approaches the door.)

Al: You subscribe one way or anther to Tom Nuttall's big ride?

Dan: No. I'm—I don't see him making it, but I didn't want to root agin' him. (Al looks at the package) The Indian got an opinion?

(Al stops chewing his toothpick and glares at Dan. Dan leaves quickly. Al slowly gets up, Dan listens at the door. Al goes out to the balcony, package in hand, setting it down on a stool.)

Al: Don't the decapitated deserve recreation, Chief? As much, if not more so, than those of us yet not dismembered. (He cuts the strings on the box. We see Tom tending his bike, Doc holding it up — smiling. Al opens the box.) Whew. You, fuckin' Chief, are uglier than before, when you were also not a treat to the eyes. Oh! (He turns and walks to the other end of the balcony) Suffer the low vantage. (Clears throat) It's better for my standing in the camp.

Tom: (addressing a hoople next to the bike) That is a lay down you propose! (He smacks the hoople across the face, knocking him to the ground.) Corruption won't never breath stinky on my bicycle!

Al: Sent many of your friends to the happy huntin' ground. Formidable Tom was, and no more a fool now than time shows us all.

Merrick: (showing Blazanov his camera.) Using the smallest possible aperture, Mr. Blazanov, and the fastest shutter speed, our endeavor is to capture Mr. Nuttall's attempt in all it's vigor and velocity.

(At No. 10, Mose is alone with his brother, Mose lays his gun on the table between himself and his brother)

Mose: We gotta sell this claim, Charlie.

Charlie: Why?

Mose: 'Cus if we don't, we're gonna fuck it up.

Charlie: Speak for yourself.

(Tom wheels his bike, with Doc's help, to his starting place. He climbs aboard and raises his hand in the air. A man with a shotgun looks for his signal to start the ride. Cy watches.)

Mose: Speakin' for myself, if we don't sell, you're gonna fuck it up.

Charlie: Speak for yourself. (Pistol cocks)

(The shotgun fires to start the ride. At the same time, Mose shoots his brother. Tom is riding down the boardwalk, hooples all around cheering him on, running beside him. Al watches from his balcony.)

Al: (whispers) Come on, Tom.

(Richardson watches excitedly, holding his antlers in front of him. Al follows Tom's progress walking the length of the balcony. Merrick takes Tom's picture as he crosses the Bella Union gap across the quagmire of the thoroughfare.)

Al: Go on, my Son!

(Martha and William cheer Tom on. Al, Seth and the SoapGuy, Charlie — all happy at the sight of Tom's successful ride. We see Wolcott briefly smile at the events.)

Al: He made it, Chief.

Mose: (approaching Wolcott) My brother had an accident.

Wolcott: What's his condition now?

Mose: Fatal. Dead. Fatal gunshot.

Wolcott: So an accident... handling his weapon. A self-inflicted wound.

Mose: (Stumbling, making it up as he goes) Fucking stupid. Showing off when he's been fuckin' drinkin'. Or a stupid fucking trick, more than one fucking time he'd do that. For Christ's sake.

Wolcott: Are there other kin, Mr. Manuel?

Mose: There's just us.

Wolcott: Mother and Father dead, no siblings—

Mose: (yelling) What did I just fucking say to you?

Wolcott: Do you accept our offer as your brother's sole heir and agent of your own interests?

Mose: 200,000.

Wolcott: Cash upon execution.

Mose: We already executed.

(Mose walks away, Al picks up the box and walks back inside)

(Chez Amie, Joanie is sitting alone in the main room with the shades drawn when there's a noise outside the front door)

Jane: Jane Cannary! Jane Cannary comin' in. (Opens the door — Joanie looks to her side) Hello.

Joanie: (sighs) We're closed.

Jane: (Closing door) I ain't here for any funny business. My name's Jane Cannary. You and me got a pain-in-the-balls mutual acquaintance, Charlie fucking Utter.

Joanie: How do you do, Jane? Joanie Stubbs. (Jane shuffles in closer) Would you like a—a drink?

Jane: (Jane is very anxious, giving every appearance of being in D.T.'s) Yes! But my opening position is no.

Joanie: (stands) I'm having a drink, Jane.

Jane: I'll probably join you directly. (Joanie pours a drink) Charlie says you lost your friends.

Joanie: (drinks) Yes.

Jane: Uh... I don't guess it was plague.

Joanie: No.

Jane: Fucking violence, probably. (Shakes her head, Joanie sighs and sits.) I worked a plague tent last year.

Joanie: People... spoke of the good you did.

Jane: Some left the tent upright. (blinking) Maybe I will have a fucking drink, just for sociability's sake and 'cause I'm a fucking drunk.

Joanie: Well, what's your preference?

Jane: That it ain't been previously swallowed. (Joanie nods, amused) Bourbon if you got it. (licks her lips.)

Joanie: Bourbon from Kentucky. (Lifts up the bottle of Basil Hayden)

Jane: I should certainly fuckin' hope so. (Joanie hands her a drink.) Thank you. (She holds the glass nervously ) Murdered? Your friends?

Joanie: It's best probably not to talk about it.

Jane: If we held to that rule, we'd be mute like monks months at a fuckin' time.

Joanie: (Gazing off) Three of 'em were murdered. The others shooed from camp so they wouldn't be.

Jane: I heard of a beating Charlie Utter dispensed to some cocksucker yesterday. I wonder if that's connected.

Joanie: I wouldn't be surprised. (Looks at the bottle, then up to Jane) Yes. (She slams the bottle down and sits.)

Jane: Does he pose a further danger to you, the cocksucker? That's—that's what got you sitting in the dark.

Joanie: Sitting countin' as waiting?

Jane: (Stammering) Oh—I—I will say that's a attitude fit for darkness... not knowin' what else to say, or pretendin' that it ain't familiar. (Joanie nods) Anyways, I'm—fuck. I'm pleased to meet you, pleased to meet you. (Jane is very nervous)

Joanie: Pleased to meet you, Jane.

Jane: All right.

Joanie: Thank you for comin' by.

Jane: Mmm-hmm.

Joanie: Don't you want your drink?

Jane: I guess I'll leave it. (laughs) Refined spirits will sometimes convulse me. (She leaves.)

(Alma's room, she is answering the door, Ellsworth is there.)

Alma: Mr. Ellsworth.

Ellsworth: I was hopin' for a word.

Alma: As many as you like. (She waves him in) Is your purpose clandestine? (She smiles)

Ellsworth: Private, as far as that goes.

Alma: Sofia's taking her nap. (She pulls the doors to the bedroom closed a bit. Ellsworth sits on a small trunk.) Let me get you a better chair.

Ellsworth: (Standing, removing his hat) Oh, uh, would it speak ill of me that I'm—comfortable here? (Alma laughs and waves him to sit, she does as well.) The other morning, you was indisposed.

Alma: I regret having imposed that on your attention.

Ellsworth: I had a wife... took by Typhus and our baby girl.

Alma: I'm so sorry, Mr. Ellsworth.

Ellsworth: Oh, thank you. Anyways, I'm acquainted with certain... experiences. Throwin' up mornin's, as an example.

Alma: (nods) I see.

Ellsworth: (Speaking softly, very anxious) And I'd say—not claimin' credentials for raisin' a family, as my time with 'em was brief—but I'd hope it'd testify to willingness as a candidate for marriage and so forth... offerin' myself. (Alma is stunned. Ellsworth takes a knee in front of her.) Completin' the sorry presentation. (He tentatively looks up at her, Alma stammers.)

Alma: I'm deeply grateful for your proposal. (stammering) May I ask a brief interval before giving you my answer?

Ellsworth: Long as you like. (standing) It will give me time to get up.

Alma: (standing) I'll ask a little longer than that. And some solitude.

Ellsworth: Mmm... of course. (He turns to leave, she grabs his arm.)

Alma: Thank you very much, Mr. Ellsworth.

Ellsworth: Yes, Ma'am.

(He leaves, she sits)

(Bullock house in the evening. Seth is tending the fire in a small wood-stove as Martha enters)

Seth: Is the boy warm enough?

Martha: Yes, thank you. (Approaches closer, pausing) This roof over our heads, Mr. Bullock, testifies to your care for William and me. The fostering affection and guidance you show my son to shape him into a man will only deepen my gratitude to you. As for myself... no further demonstrations are necessary as... other duties claim your attentions. (She heads for the stairs.)

Seth: None such as you conceive since your arrival, nor will they again, whatever the state of our relations.

Martha: (Martha is pissed) Do not sacrifice further on my account, Mr. Bullock. (She starts to go upstairs, abruptly turns and hisses:) I reject the offering. I repudiate it. I find it poisonous.

(She exits upstairs. Seth clenches, slams the stove door and drops the poker)

(Merrick's office, Al is entering by the upper route with a paper in hand.)

Al: Aha, not the eyesore of my previous visit, huh?

Merrick: Ah, Al, welcome. Yes, yes. Tidied and reconstituted, prompted in no small measure, I might add, by your very much appreciated exhortation.

Al: I just jotted a few fucking thoughts down for your perusal.

Merrick: In what regard?

Al: Well, peruse it and you'll fucking find out. (He turns — facing Blazanov's apparatus.) What the fuck is this?

Merrick: Uh, that is a telegraph apparatus, whose operator, Mr. Blazanov, presently is, uh, taking the air. (reading) "Sheriff Bullock would not confirm having met with representatives from the Montana territory to discuss their offer of annexation." Is this true, Al?

Al: (Still gazing at the telegraph equipment) Did he fucking confirm it to you?

Merrick: I haven't spoken to Bullock.

Al: So, then I guess it ain't confirmed. Answer me this fucking question. Why in fuck do I find out about this telegraph operator arriving tardily and by accident?

Merrick: I wasn't aware that you were owed official notification.

Al: (irritated) Merrick, you and me are allies, marching into battle together, and aren't smart-assed replies amongst allies a waste of fuckin' time?

Merrick: Uh... allies? Marching?

Al: Allies marching is exactly fucking right. And this operator hitting camp is big. The main dereliction is Farnum's whose bailiwick specifically is new arrivals, but you have also been fucking remiss. (Shaking finger at Merrick.)

Merrick: What battle are we marching toward in formation of some sort, Al?

(Door opens and Blazanov enters with a bedrole)

Blazanov:I, uh, purchased the sleeping equipment.

Merrick: Mr. Blazanov, Mr. Swearengen.

Blazanov: (bowing) How do you do, Mr. Swearengen?

Al: All right, Blazanov. (grinning, very patronizing) That's some pronounced fuckin' accent you've got, huh?

Blazanov: I am Russian.

Al: Now you could have waited saying that before I was fuckin' seated, huh? (They all laugh)

Merrick: Mr. Swearengen was keenly interested to hear that you're the camp's telegraph operator.

Blazanov: How do you do?

Al: Oh, no no no. How do you do? (Stepping in close) You are the master of the fuckin' secret code and all the other fuckin' secret things, isn't that right, huh?

Blazanov: Not so secret.

Al: No, that's some fucking skill. I'm sure people are trying to bribe you right and left, huh?

Blazanov: No, no, I'm not allowed.

Al: Oh, nor am I, no. None of us are. We are, every one, strictly forbade. That's the fucking beauty of it all, huh?

Blazanov: I think I haven't enough English for you, Mr. Swearengen.

Al: Bullshit. You have the perfect exact fucking amount. My only question for you, young man, is your feelings on (grabs the bedrole away and leans dow to Blazanov's croths, imitating a blowjob) your prick being sucked constantly and without charge, yeah? (They all laugh)

Merrick: Whoa! And thus you encounter one of our wonderful meaningless American traditions, Mr. Blazanov, the tall-tale conversation, and-and tales and good nature.

Blazanov: Hmm.

Al: (Slowly walking up the stairs) The Gem, Blazanov, my saloon. Very convenient to your place of business, huh? Via private walkway, which I will employ as we speak, or by the public thoroughfare. Visit and you will experience a tradition... only used in this camp or my place by newly-arrived telegraph operators fucking free, be their preference of tale tall or fuckin' otherwise. And by all means—(mimicking Russian accent) Welcome to America. (Bowing, he leaves.)

(At Bills grave, Charlie approaches, taking off his hat.)

Charlie: Evenin', Bill. Jane ain't with me, 'cause she's a drunken fuckin' mess, and I don't know what to do about it. I know you want her looked out for, and I'm doin' my fuckin' best. But I won't stand before you claimin' optimism. Other news. That letter you wrote your wife just before that cocksucker murdered you, it come to my hand. (Clearing pebbles from the grave) I won't even try explainin' fuckin' how. And knowin' what we know about our fucked up postal system, I ain't committin' it to the fuckin' mails. You know I will try to get it to her, which I pray'd be a portion off your mind. When I've found where she's at, on my way settin' off I'll tell you. All right. God bless you, Bill. (Starts to leave—turns back.) And as far as Jane, as drunk as you've seen her, you've never seen her this worse. Between us, maybe havin' lost wantin' to keep on. So I-I don't know what the fuck to do! But you know I'll—I'll keep tryin'. (He leaves.)

(Seth is slowly walking down the street. He approaches a man sleeping at a table in the street. Seth lightly kicks the table, the man stirs then puts his head back down on the table. Alma is watching Seth from her window.)

(Cut to chink's alley. Doc is looking into a whore's cage, she appears to be dead, Doc is disgusted. Wolcott is talking to Mose while Mr Lee looks on from his hut.)

Wolcott: Is this adequate, Mr. Manuel? Your brothers mortal remains are housed inside under the care of Mr. Lee.

( Doc approaches Wolcott.)

Doc: Do you speak Chinese?

Wolcott: I do not, Sir.

Doc: Well, however you accomplish communication with that son of a bitch (pointing to Lee.) then the more the disgrace to your soul! (Doc storms off)

Wolcott: Are we through here? Can we finally complete our transaction?

Mose: It fucking happens the fucking gun he was cleaning when he shot himself was mine.

Wolcott: Is that so?

Mose: And I'm asking to know if a person of the mind to blame me will have a way to recover the fucking bullet?

Wolcott: I expect not, Mr. Manuel, or that other than yours, any such mind is in the camp. I suggest you think of other things, like the money that Mr. Tolliver's waiting to present to you at the Bella Union.

Mose: (irritated) That easy... (walking off) to forget a fucking brother?!

Wolcott: Money has properties in this regard! (to himself now) Though no remedy is discovered yet sovereign against sentimental remorse. (Shouts viciously at a Chinese whore that is looking at him, leaning against the bars of her cage.) Close your eyes!

(He walks off, passing the dead whore on the way.)

(Chez Amie, Joanie is still sitting alone. There's a knock at the door.)

Joanie: It's open. (Wolcott enters, shuts the door, hands behind his back.) Do what you came to.

Wolcott: (Approaching) I don't know what I came to do.

Joanie: Is it easier sayin' that?

Wolcott: The other nights I've known.

(Cut to the street, Jane stumbles down the stairs from the lock-up, clutching a shot gun.)

Jane: (to herself) You're supposed to look out for that madam, fucking asleep at the switch.

(Cut to Joanie, standing to face Wolcott.)

(Cut to Jane)

Jane: Where's fucking Charlie to piss in my ear when he's fuckin' needed?

(Cut to Joanie, Wolcott eyes the bourbon, turning it to read the label.)

Wolcott: Basil Hayden Bourbon, you were waiting for me.

Joanie: No, my friend Jane left that.

(Suddenly she grabs up the bottle and breaks it against the side of Wolcott's head. He stumbles, bleeding from his temple. Joanie runs into the back room.)

Joanie: And you leave me alone! (She slams the door behind her.) And I got a fucking gun in here too! (She opens a drawer and pulls out a pistol.) And get the fuck out! And lock the front fucking door!

(She sits on the bed, Wolcott stumbles over to the chair, retrieving his hat from the floor beside it, he stumbles out the door.)

(Cut to the street as Wolcott is staggering from the Chez Amie. Jane sees him, she's got her rifle pointed at him)

Jane: Are you the fucking cocksucker?

Wolcott: I may well be.

Jane: Did you just kill that girl in the Chez Amie?

Wolcott: I did not. That girl in the Chez Amie is well.

Jane: So whose blood's on your fucking mug?

Wolcott: My own. (Reaching to hand her his card) My name is Francis Wolcott. (She takes it, he keeps walking) If you find me untrue in any particular, I stay at the Grand Central Hotel.

Jane: (to his back) Who runs that joint?

Wolcott: A grotesque named Farnum.

Jane: You ain't lied so far.

(She staggers toward the Chez Amie. Wolcott continues to the hotel.)

The End