Jarry wonders why a representative of Clark's, unknown to Adams, would bother to conceal himself. "Maybe he had open sores," Adams cracks. It had to be Clark, Jarry says, because he would have had the most to lose by being recognized. God, it's beautiful. He's played right into Al's hands, and it couldn't have gone more smoothly. Adams and Al look at each other and just try to contain their glee as the trap closes on Jarry. "If Deadwood could grant an interval before answering Montana's offer," Jarry says, "I will convey my impressions to Yankton, and learn whether they wish to counter." Al takes a swig, probably to keep from laughing, and says he has "no objection...though I speak only for myself." Yes, well, Al? Who else is there?
As Adams bites his tongue to keep from audibly whooping at their victory, Jarry tells Al he's being far too modest. Uh, sure.
Jarry pays his respects, finally, and leaves, and the two men left in the office are nearly beside themselves. "What just happened?" Adams asks his boss, in amazement. Al looks up with a Cheshire smile. "We knocked the cocksucker up," he says, "and soon he will find himself deliverin'." Adams: "The fifty?" Al: "Elections."
They toast and swig some whiskey. Lowering his glass, Adams wonders how William Bullock is doing. "Ain't my department," Al says, his face as inscrutable as a stone.
Somewhere out in the woods, Hostetler is bedding down by a campfire while the NG relieves himself a few yards away. "You could put yourself to more distance," Hostetler says. "I'm scared to go off in the dark," the NG tells him. "I can't piss when I'm scared."
This is just a good idea, in general. Last week, I was coming home on a plane from Minneapolis and the flight attendant announced that the light in the lavatory at the front of the cabin wasn't working, so it was now use at your own risk. My co-worker with whom I was traveling nodded sagely. "You know," he said, "one of the great truths of life is You Should Not Pee in the Dark. Because, you just never know what's really happening." He's right, of course, as the NG would no doubt agree.
The NG asks Hostetler what he thinks about Oregon, and maybe going there, together. "You could be my apprentice," he tells the older man, "and carry love notes from pot-gut shitheads to those fat-ass women that they keep on the side." As appealing as this sounds, Hostetler thinks maybe no. In the darkness, they hear the neigh of what we can assume to be that damn wild horse. "I'm gonna catch that sumbitch and take him back to camp," Hostetler says. "That could," the NG advises, "bring about some killin'."