Ellsworth is out on his claim this morning, hanging out with his dog. He teases his buddy, who has gone digging after some creature down a hole, as terriers will, and says the dog will be lucky if his intended prey doesn't make enough room for himself down the escape hatch to roll around laughing at his pursuer.
The dog is not amused. But he doesn't have time to comment, as he has to hide when Dan Dority strolls up, greeting Ellsworth.
The latter asks Dan where Brom Garret, "the great prospector," is this morning. Dan kind of mutters that he guesses Brom has slept in. Ellsworth winkingly supposes that Brom's enthusiasm for prospecting is "on the wane." Dan says he figures that's possible, and goes to leave, telling Ellsworth he'll see him at the Gem. "Always possible," Ellsworth answers, and waits for Dan to leave to yell out to his dog that Dan has gone.
Up at the graveyard, Sol and Bullock are delivering Ned Mason to the ground from whence he came while sweet Rev. Smith prays and Merrick stands by, sneezing his head off. We move from this solemn scene down to the thoroughfare where a group of newcomers is arriving in camp.
Watching from his window, Al gets a rude awakening in this morning's light -- these new folks ride up across the street and stake their claim. Apparently, they're the proprietors and employees of the Bella Union Saloon. Competition. Al's eyes narrow as he looks over their fancy clothes and pretty whores.
Meanwhile, ol' Ned's funeral service is coming to a close. Bullock stands over the open grave while the Rev. pointedly reads from Proverbs 16: "A man's ways please the Lord, when he maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him." Kind of a paraphrase, Rev., but we get it, and so does Bullock. He clenches, knowingly, and thanks the others gathered who helped transport the coffin to the scene. Merrick asks if he may edify his readers as to the goings on of the night's gunfight. Bullock says no, and Merrick sighs, picking up a shovel to help cover the grave. No one will talk to him about any night's gunfight.
Speaking of fights, there's about to be one in the thoroughfare, if Al has any say. "What the FUCK?" he spits, coming out to find E.B. Farnum watching the new people move in. E.B. feigns innocence, saying as near as he can tell, the new folks secretly bought out Artie Simpson's place, and prearranged to turn it into a joint. "This no-good, fucking Judas," Al says, pointing at Artie Simpson, who is, as they speak, slinging his worldly goods into a wagon and getting ready to drive away. He tells Al to calm down, that he made "a practical goddamn business decision." Al snarkily wonders why Artie wouldn't have given him a chance to match the Bella Union's buying offer. "You couldn't have," Artie says. "You'd have killed me before you'd matched." Ah, Artie's no dummy. With malice, Al tells Artie to "drive careful, cocksucker." Really, Artie is not dumb: "Don't think I haven't taken precaution," he says. "Don't think I don't know your mind." Artie, if only you could've stuck around and taught some kind of adult continuing education extension night class in Knowing Al's Mind. About thirty more people would be alive right now.
Employing extremely bad timing, Sol picks this moment to pursue the issue of buying the lot Al is renting to him and Bullock. Al ain't got time, however, and tells him to find him later. "We're anxious to start building, though," Sol presses, and Al has to use the world's oldest Dad Maneuver to get him to back off: "You want an answer now, [then] it's no."
Down at Nuttall's, Wild Bill is locked in an endless game of poker with nasty Jack McCall, who will just not stop needling him, no matter how many times he's reminded not to do so. He uses all kinds of bluffing techniques, implying repeatedly that Wild Bill doesn't have the cards to win, knocking his skills, suggesting that he's bound to win one eventually, seeing that "even a stopped clock has to be right, sometime." The thing is, Bill's weakness isn't poker, it's his ego, something McCall has very easily recognized, making it no problem for him to play Bill like a damn piano. Down to his last eight dollars, Bill puts one of his famous guns into the pot. McCall uses his smarmy tactics to force Bill to put up both his guns, something the room is loath to see happen. Bill does it, though, and it's time to lay down cards.
McCall assumes he's won it, because hell, he's won every single other game. He lays down with a nine-high straight. Things look bad for Wild Bill. Just when we start to assume that he will never be invited on Bravo for some kind of Old West Dead Celebrity Poker tourney, Bill surprises us all by coming up with a club flush and winning the pot. During all this exposing of cards, Bill's eyes never leave the greasy McCall. He can't enjoy his win, of course, because his dumbass opponent's unchecked diarrhea of the mouth flows on: "Well, that's one in a row for you, Wiiiiiild Bill," he says, like an idiot, and begins stretching and yawning, looking to leave the game. Bill continues to stare him down and asks if McCall's sure he wants to stop playing. McCall has the good sense to look nervous about this, especially when Bill busts out three rather powerful McCall-shaped insults in a row.
Behind the bar, Nuttall suggests they take their conversation outside. McCall, frozen in his seat, tells Bill he doesn't intend to get in a gun fight with him. "But you will run your c*nt mouth at me," Bill says, and pausing to muster the full strength of his extreme gambling addiction, he gets up to leave, saying that he "will take it, to play poker." Straight-backed, he heads out of Nuttall's and over to the Grand Central.
In Doc's cabin, Jane and Charlie are leaning over their charge, the little squarehead girl, whom they have been caring for since spiriting her away to keep her safe from Al. They're worried that she has a fever, which Doc says she does, being wolf-bit, and all. Jane and Charlie look on nervously as Doc explains that they can leave her in town, now, since Al is no longer a threat to her. The two babysitters are surprised to hear this. Doc explains that the concern was that Al would want to kill her to keep her from telling everyone that road agents killed her family, thus keeping people from asking by whom the road agents were employed. Which would be him. Al. Why is everything in Deadwood so complicated? This doesn't happen, like, in Everwood. There aren't seven layers to every problem in that town.
Anyway, as Doc tells Jane and Charlie, Al has taken "a different approach to the problem." Uh, yeah. By killing the whole road agent gang. Voila! Problem solved.
Doc is glad they've brought the little girl in, anyway, since she'll do better indoors. Charlie says he's told Jane that he'll give up his room at the hotel to her so she can keep the child there, but Jane gets mad. "I will not stay in that fucking hotel," she yells. "They don't want me; they won't give me a room!" Doc shushes them, telling them to keep their voices down, and as he doses the girl with some unknown potion, they all hover over her, smiling sweetly. Smug, Jane whispers that she's warned Charlie about making noise, as he "snores the whole fucking night." Ah! Perhaps Charlie has sleep apnea, a disorder upon which I will speechify at even the merest mention of the word "snore." If you or someone you love snores, by God you'd better look at that link, or I will come to your house and creep up beside you in your sleep like a road agent!
Oh, hello. Yes, I'm in the middle of a recap.
Outside, Bullock is walking down the thoroughfare with Rev. Smith, who is explaining that he was a field nurse during the war, at Shiloh and Second Manassas. "That was...a good deal of violence," he says. Bullock gives a knowing nod and asks the holy man if that's when he got his "calling" to be a minister. The Rev. says yes, that out of all that horror, the Lord directed his steps. "He directeth all our steps, Mr. Bullock," he says, turning to his new friend. "All of us." Bullock stops and grins a little. "If you're preaching at me, Reverend, you need to put a little more light on the text." Come on, Bullock, if anybody went to Sunday School, you did. Quit hiding your light under a bushel. And by "bushel," I mean your mustache. The Rev. assures Bullock that if he is preaching at him, he's not fulfilling his calling at all.
They have now arrived at the hardware tent, where Sol is messing around in the wares. Bullock, still all smiles from his little chat, asks Sol if they've acquired the lot, saying he's brought the preacher to help start on their building project. He gets bad news, however. Sol: "We're still hangin' fire." Bullock goes to InstaClench, and asks what's the hold-up. Sol explains about the Bella Union coming into town, pissing off Al and making the situation untenable for pushing Al to a decision on the lot. Bullock's mad. "I got all the lumber cut!" he says, through his teeth. "And I warned you that was premature," Sol tells him. Now Bullock's real mad: "You said '98 percent' after your last conversation with that sonofabitch." Sol nods and busts out the new math: "Ninety-eight is not 100." The Rev., still in the background, sees his cue when Bullock clenches out a "goddammit!" and takes his leave.
Over at the Grand Central, now it's Jane's turn to play a little "I told you so." She was right -- E.B. doesn't want her in his hotel, even though she's standing there with the sick squarehead girl on her shoulder. Charlie implores E.B. that if it's the room rate that's holding him back from letting Jane in, to just go on and raise the rates. E.B. lies that it's not just rates, that there's a waiting list for occupancy. Jane's had enough. "You undertaker-lookin' sonofabitch," she hollers at the slimy E.B., "this little girl's doctor-ordered to live indoors, and I'm assigned to change her dressings." E.B. is about as moved as any snake in the grass could be, which is to say, not at all. "A sad story that's none of my affair, madam," he oils, "if I guess your sex correct." Ooooh, E.B. If you had any balls, Jane might stomp them off right now, if not for the saving grace of Wild Bill, who is at this moment entering the hotel. He sees the argument and asks what seems to be the problem. Charlie explains about the little girl, and E.B. inserts himself, reversing his position and saying that he feels for the girl, but that his issue is this waiting list he mentioned, and as Charlie has vacated his room, he feels it should go to one of these waiting people. "Isn't that simple fairness?" E.B. asks, all Mother Teresa style.
Jane yells out that the innkeeper does not give fuck-all about fairness, that he just wants to keep her out. Solomon-like, Wild Bill offers a solution: "How 'bout if [Charlie] stays in his room, and the lady moves in with me? That way no one's vacating nothin'." Jane can hardly control her glee at this suggestion -- moving in with her hero! -- and has to hid her face in the little girl's blanket to keep from singing. E.B. says this resolution to the problem might be all right, except wouldn't it raise questions of decorum. Oh, yes, E.B. Yes. Unmarried people staying in the same room would traumatize the molesting, marauding, murdering citizens of Deadwood. Why, they'd probably form a committee on morals about it, with representatives from all the camp's whorehouses.
Bill barely blinks when he commands E.B. to "let her in" and staggers off to have some breakfast. As Charlie follows, E.B. jerks down the keys to the room and gives them to Jane, hissing that there will be a rate adjustment. And furthermore, "I heard the stories, madam, I tell you that at flagfall. You are here on sufferance!" Hmph. E.B., as if Jane is any worse a carousing drunk than any other of the fools now puking in the thoroughfare. She rightly tells him to kiss her ass.
In his office at the Gem, Trixie is brushing up Al's suit as he prepares to go and meet the Bella Union cocksuckers. "Where were they when Dan and me were chopping trees in this gulch?" Al mutters. "Hands all blistered... buck-toothed fuckin' beavers rolling around in the creek, slapping their tails in the water like we was high entertainment!" Trixie says she'd have given a nickel to see Al chopping wood. Wouldn't we all? Al harrumphs that he not only chopped it, he was blow for blow with Dan. "I can play that shit when I have to," he says, looking his very dapper self over in the mirror. "But I've been to Chicago, too." Fully turned out, he asks Trixie how he looks. Smiling, she tells him "like Christ crucified." Why that's a compliment, I don't know. Seems like it would be nicer to say "like Christ resurrected," right? Or "like Christ at that party where he turned water into wine...that was a great night."
Moments later, Al enters the Bella Union. He looks over the men unpacking the saloon goods and says he guesses "this place ain't a hotel no more." The saloon's new madam calls out that if he wants to come back when they open that night, they'll find him a place to lay down. Al introduces himself to Cy Tolliver, the man in charge, who then introduces him to Ed Sawyer, and the madam, Joanie Stubbs. Nodding in as much of a friendly manner as he can muster, Al tells them that they "must have trained with the heathens," seeing as how they came upon the camp unbeknownst. Great way to greet the new neighbors, Al. You couldn't have brought a bundt? Cy smiles, nearly putting a crease in his cornsilk.
What passes for polite conversation in the Old West progresses to bloviation on the Indian problem. Al recounts that he has been in camp for -- he talks about having been there before, a year , until the cavalry drove all the whites out of the valley. "Deep fucking thinkers in Washington put forward that policy," Al says. "This year, though, so many soldiers desertin' to prospect, [they] gave up the ghost, let us all back in." He continues, grimly: "And, of course, Custer sorted out the Sioux for us, so now we're all as safe as at our mothers' tits."
Like a bored party host, Cy responds that Custer "did a job for our side, didn't he, Al?" And, like the guest that showed up uninvited, Al prattles on. "How 'bout that long-haired fucking blowhard, huh?" he says, continuing on about Custer and his routing of the Sioux. "I'll tell you this, Cy, and you can mark my words, Crazy Horse winning at Little Big Horn bought his people one good long-term ass-fucking."
"You do not want to be a dirt-worshiping heathen from this fucking point forward," Al continues, and turns suddenly as if he'd forgotten his manners to excuse himself to Joanie Stubbs with a smooth "pardon my French." She hands it right back to him, stone cold: "Oh," she says, unblinking, "I speak French." And by God if Al isn't momentarily unsettled by her response. Ian McShane plays this scene like a violin. "Well," he recovers, "here we are settlin' the world's problems," and laughs, actually showing his teeth, in a nearly unprecedented moment. "And I've been wonderin', Cy, if perhaps we should talk about our areas of overlap so's we're not at each other's throats." Cy asks Al to give him a for instance. "Uh, women," Al responds. "Would we want to agree on rates?" Joanie steps in to say that "as far as pussy, Al, we'll want to let the market sort itself out." Al does his little laugh again and says it sounds like he's up against specialty acts. He's getting only a tad flustered.
He moves on, asking about table games, and whether there's any overlap there. Eddie, the games manager, tells him the Bella Union will be offering craps. "I played that in Chicago," Al says, "I don't offer it, myself. Gets these hoopleheads confused, hmm?" Al's pleased to hear that craps is one area of overlap avoided. He asks now about faro. Eddie says they will be offering that, as Al does. Al gets his worried look again. Cy sighs (ha) and says that he just isn't worried about the overlap, that the saloons are offering different atmospheres. He says Al's a pioneering, trailblazing type, and he's going to draw a "trailblazin' element." Al gets it. "Meaning," he says, "I get the ones that don't wash."
Good try, Al, but nobody feels sorry for you. "Must cut through the stink, though," Eddie jibes, "when they walk in with those sacks full of gold." Al shoots him a look like he'll be sure to get back and stab him later. "Oh, the money spends, definitely," he says. Cy's through with him. "Anyways," he tells Al, in kind of a patronizing tone, "thanks for the neighborly visit." Al lowers his head, and wishes Cy good luck. As he walks out, the three line up to watch him go. "Wouldn't set a fire right away," Eddie says. "Come to cases, though," Cy intones, ominously, "he would set a fire." That's what he just said, Cy, you damn LastWordy McGee.
Back over in the Grand Central dining room, Wild Bill and Charlie are suffering through an uncomfortable meeting with Brom Garret; Garret is trying to get Bill to help him out with what he believes to be his case against Al, who he believes duped him into purchasing a worthless claim. Now, he's right, of course, Al did that, but...Bill, along with the rest of us, is wondering just what Garret thinks he's going to do about it. "The way you tell it, mister," Bill says, "the man didn't sell you that claim holding a gun to your head." Bill's hair looks particularly luxurious in this scene, I just want to point out.
Brom goes on again about how he was duped and it isn't fair and how he got his hands dirty, boo hoo, working out in his claim for two days, or whatever, without finding any gold. Charlie speaks for all of us when he tells Brom that it sounds like he's up shit creek. Garret, though, still wants to try and offer a bounty on the men who cheated him. Bill ain't biting, though. "Sorry you lost your money, mister," he says, "but I ain't for hire to rob it back." Brom tries a few more times to get his point across, but Charlie finally has to shoot him down, explaining that Tim Driscoll's room has a fresh blood stain in it, causing one to wonder if these accomplices who worked with him to dupe Garret are perhaps too dangerous to deal with. Brom says he quite understands, but it's obvious to his companions that he so very clearly does not. "I don't think he took your point," Bill says, "quite." Charlie takes a sip of his coffee as they watch Brom leave: "I think he quite missed it."
Bill gets up to leave, saying he's going to pass out from his all-night poker playing. Charlie remarks that when he was coming into camp this morning, he ran into Bullock. They have a little chat about Bullock and how great he is. "What would you think of us and him and his friend having dinner tonight?" Charlie asks. Bill wants to know why -- he is most likely skeptical about Charlie's intentions, trying to set him up with straight-edge friends. Charlie says that people gotta eat, right? "And maybe you'd enjoy sitting with someone who wasn't looking to beat you at cards," he continues, "or blow your fuckin' head off." Bill gives him an eyebrow and says that's true enough, and to mark him down for a yes.
In his office at the Gem, Al's on a rant. He's pissed he had no advance warning about the Bella Union rolling in, and bites E.B.'s head off when he slimily remarks that yes, knowing in advance would have been a good thing. "Do not repeat back to me what I just said in different fucking words," Al says. "Now, I want to know..." The gathered lackeys lean forward to listen... "Who cut the cheese?"
At this point, I nearly slide to the floor. Oh, if my father had lived to see the day when "who cut the cheese?" was employed so dramatically on a program in which the foulest, most ear-blistering epithets are slung and parried scene after scene...honestly, it's like having Marlon Brando in his role as Don Corleone turn to Fontaine and say "pull my finger."
"I'll tell you this, for openers," Al says, stomping to the door, "we are gonna set off an area on the balcony, and GOD HELP whoever doesn't use it, because the stink I have to smell in this office, and whoever doesn't admit to it, is going out the window, into the muck, onto their fucking heads, and we'll see how they like fartin' from that position, OKAY?" This is, like, my favorite Al scene of the whole series. I love how his rage encompasses all when he really gets stressed. (I plan to incorporate this balcony policy in my own home, by the way.)
He does some more mumbling about how he thinks he's getting screwed over by the hardware guys and Wild Bill, and sends Johnny off to fetch them so they can hash it out, again. Furthermore, he says to stop over at Wu's to demand that the Chinaman feed Persimmon Phil to the pigs tonight, or Al's going to serve them "raw loin of Oriental."
Johnny leaves, and Al turns to his resident dope fiend lackey, and sends him on a mission to get the inside track on the Bella Union through their dope fiend, the far dealer, whose name we will later learn is Leon. Al tells him to bring the dude over to the Gem, and he goes out.
In their room at the hotel, Brom is expressing his frustration to his wife, Alma. The burden, he tells her, falls on him to get his money back from the bad claim. Mrs. G asks if he thinks there's any possibility Wild Bill will reconsider his position. Brom says no. "Nor was I sure, if he'd agreed," Brom says, "that the man before me at that breakfast table was equal to the task." Uh, sure. Wild Bill, legendary gun slinger of the Old West...feared by all who meet him...probably not up to snuff for your dumb job. Right.
Brom fumes a little in silence, until Alma, gathering her robes, goes and puts her arms around him, asking that he promise her one thing. "Do not ask me to amend my purpose," he says, nervously, hoping she'll do just that. Instead, she asks that before he goes and confronts Al, he take one of his walks. Overcome by her understanding and support, he turns and clings to her. "To clear my head and reflect?" he asks, muffled into her shoulder. "If only to perfect your arguments," she tells him, all consoling. "I see," he says, pitifully, "I accept the suggestion, and a feeling for its author." She nods and pats his face like a mother. He tells her that if he's stooped when she sees him that it won't be worry weighing him down, but bags of his recovered gold. She tries to look proud, but is clearly not filled with confidence. "Take your walk, dear," she tells him, and sends him out. Before she closes the door, however, she sees another half-obscured face across the hall. Calamity Jane, from behind her own door, is watching Mrs. G. They look at each other for a moment -- Mrs. G makes a hopeful face like another human being might be about to speak to her -- until Jane closes her door with a slam.
Alma looks out and sees Brom stopped in the opposite stairwell. Wild Bill is laid out in the hall, seemingly dead to the world. Brom sniffs, saying that this proves his doubts were well-founded. Alma nods, but quickly goes back in her room. This has all been too much for her, I guess, all this, you know, conversation, and we see her readying her dose of laudanum.
In her own room, Jane leans over the bed of the little sleeping squarehead, singing the praises of Wild Bill. "Too considerate to disturb us," she says, "[and] wouldn't have truck with that room clerk ghoul to get let into Charlie's room...rather sleep in the fucking hallway. That's the kind of man he is." She realizes she's playing blue in front of the little girl, and cringes. "Aw! I owe you another fuckin' penny." Oops. She sighs, and quickly adds: "I owe you another one." Man, if they instituted this penny-for-a-swear policy for the whole town of Deadwood, the squarehead kid would be the richest human being west of the Atlantic.
Jane goes on to tell the sleeping girl that she's not sure she wants her to learn English, that that would spare her knowing how ignorant people are. "But then," she reflects, "I couldn't tell you about Bill...sleeping in the hallway out of thought for others...and I know some other fuckin' stories, too..." Oops. Jane owes her another penny. Very sweet scene.
Outside, stupid McCall is messing around in front of the hardware tent. Bullock clenches out for Sol to "look at that jackass." McCall's upset, or drunk, or both. "I'll tell you who's being done a favor," he slurs. "Or would you care to guess? A favor in this tent!" They don't know what he's talking about, but Sol, ever the consummate customer service representative, answers, "I'd guess it'd be you, yourself, sir. Considering the quality goods." Nice try, Sol, but McCall ain't here to look at shovels (though they are very nice, and certainly of high quality, I'm sure). "The favor here is being done for Wild Bill Hickok," McCall says, and Bullock ever so casually asks him what he's talking about. McCall explains, boozily: "'Cause if I'm out prospectin' in the hills, then he ain't gettin' his just desserts, at the poker table or otherwise." He sniffs, pseudo-slyly, and tells them not to ask him what he meant by that last part. Ohhhh, too late, my friend. Bullock clenches. "What do you mean?" McCall reminds him that he'd "do better not askin'." Bullock's had enough and tells him to get lost, but McCall now insists he wants to buy some supplies. Still clenched, Bullock tells him he "ain't buyin' nothin'.'" McCall staggers and turns, coming face-to-face with Charlie Utter, who is coming into the tent. He does that whole drunk "where do I know you from" thing that has been passed down from alcoholic to alcoholic for generations. Charlie says he can't help him with that, but McCall puts two and two together. Laughing, he says, "You follow him around," and Bullock, who has just been waiting for an excuse, takes McCall by the scruff and seat and slings him into the thoroughfare, announcing that "that tent's shut to you. Don't come back there."
From the mud, McCall mutters under his breath, "Fuck you, and any plans I might have had to buy somethin'...or prospect." Seeing all this go down, Charlie tells Sol he'd personally "be lousy at retail...wouldn't have the patience for it." Looking back at Bullock, Sol comments that he's "not sure how much future he's got." Anyways, Charlie says, he's come to tell them that in a few days he's heading back to Cheyenne to see to his freight bidness, and that should they need resupply, he'll hook them up. He then removes his hat like a gentleman and asks them to join him and Bill for dinner at the hotel that night or some other time. He seems nervous about it, which is cute. With romance...er, friendship...in his eyes, Bullock says, "Let's do it tonight." Charlie demurs, saying he feels like he "should have brung posies."
This dreamy interlude is interrupted by Johnny, who has come from the Gem to fetch the hardware fellas for Al. They head over, and we see that Alma is watching all from above while she takes her dose, including Brom walking up and down the thoroughfare, talking to himself.
Inside the saloon, Al meets with Sol and Bullock while Dan and E.B. look on. They have a polite exchange, with Al telling them he's been so addled by the arrival of these Bella Union people, he hopes the hardware guys understand his reasoning of earlier in the day when he said he would not sell them the claim outright. Getting to the point, Bullock asks what his thinking is now. Al doesn't like that, but declines to murder him on the spot. What he really wants to know is if Bullock and Sol know the new saloon interests. They assure him, no. "Not them," Bullock says, "and not Bill Hickok. All we want to do is run a hardware bidness." Al, with his trust issues in full swing, leans forward to make his feelings clear. "I have got to be satisfied," he says. "Why wouldn't ya, Mr. Swearengen?" Sol asks, all casual, and Al thanks him for saying that "even if you don't fuckin' mean it."
Once again, Bullock is over it. "What would make you comfortable selling to us?" he asks. Al shoots a look over to E.B. before laying down his ridiculous terms. He wants a thousand for the lot; right of first refusal on any further sale; right to buy back the lot at the original price; and the right to insist that the men have no association whatever with the Bella Union people, including the crazy demand that they not even sell them any hardware. Sol agrees to all of this while Bullock clenches in silence. E.B., for his part, looks smug as a bug.
Al sighs and struggles mightily to do a nice thing -- he says he guesses it will be all right after all for them to sell their stuff to the Bella Union. "So," Bullock says, smelling a con, "we can sell them our wares?" Al: "Your normal fucking wares. No gambling, whoring or whiskey on the fucking premises is the chief fucking point." Sol can hardly wait to seal the deal. He reaches out to shake on it, and Al asks him to perform Deadwood's traditional nasty secret handshake. "I spit in my hand," Al says, full of eyebrows. "Will that drive you screaming into the hills?" Hee. Right now, Sol would spit just about anywhere to get the lot. They spit in their hands, shake, and the deal is done.
In the street, ol' Soapy is putting forward the idea of a Wild Bill Shooting Extravaganza to Charlie, who looks totally bored. "That idea for Mr. Hickok has been had and acted upon by a few people before you," he says. But Soapy's on a roll. "And then afterward," he says, "we cut the bullets out AND the fuckin' playing cards he was usin' as targets -- that's the point I was tryin' to get to." Yes, genius. Heavy with sarcasm, Charlie suggests they also sell the tree bark behind the targets. Soapy, so full of good ol' American capitalism, says, "Hell, yeah, we'll sell the fuckin' bark."
Ignoring him, Charlie crosses to meet Bullock and Sol coming out of the Gem. Much congratulating goes on about the purchase of the lot. Charlie is happy for them. "Never had to strain so to spend a thousand dollars," Sol tells him. Bullock asks if Charlie will let them out of their dinner arrangements. "Just as soon not do it, huh?" Charlie asks. His disappointment is painful. "We'd like to get to building," Bullock answers. Charlie affably says that they can meet for breakfast, instead. "Maybe we'll catch Bill coming back from cards." Aw, man. Bullock, why do you have to be such a damn efficiency expert, or whatever. You can't wait one day to start your little love nest...I MEAN..."hardware store"?
Across the street, E.B. walks into the new Bella Union and stands amazed. He even lets out a "Heavens to Betsey." (Because I am a slight nerd, I had to look up the origins of that phrase. It seems slightly anachronistic, but who knows? Doesn't matter, really, because coming out of E.B.'s mouth, anything sounds funny, and this is no exception.) He immediately approaches Eddie's craps table, where the two have a clandestine conversation. "I'm liable to be killed, Eddie," E.B. whispers, dropping all pretense of being a stranger to Eddie. "Curious, your coming here then, E.B.," the dealer answers.
A-ha. Seems E.B. himself was the unknown source Al was bitching about that helped the Bella Union interests buy Artie Simpson's place. E.B., you snake in the grass. "Al Swearengen's a dangerous man," he says. "Let him doubt those he's trusted, this camp'll run red with blood." Eddie makes a crack, and E.B. wonders aloud how cavalier he'll be with "a pig gnawing through your vitals." Eddie says to bet on him screaming for mercy. In conclusion, he tells E.B. that Al may get him anyway, but that if his nerve goes, Al will get it for sure. E.B. breaks out into (another) sweat as he ponders this.
In his office, Al is buying off the Bella Union's faro dealer with dope. "Now, dope is not my preferred form of relaxation," he says, practically waving a ball of the stuff under the guy's nose, "but I did try the shit and believe me, I nearly converted." The dealer promises to bring Al a daily report of the goings-on at the new saloon. Al says good, and looks out the window just in time to see E.B. coming out of the joint. "Here's the type I'd want to know about," he tells his new snitch, dragging him to the window. "Judas goat-lookin' fella...coyote-movin' type." The snitch says he'll keep a special eye on him.
Their meeting is interrupted by Johnny, who comes in to tell Al that "that cherry New York dude is downstairs asking for you." Al says to tell him to beat it, but Johnny comes over to whisper that the guy, Brom, "keeps talking about the Pinkertons." These must be the magic words, because Al goes right down.
Brom is smoking a cigar at the bar, trying to look confident. "Dan Dority thought you were dead," Al says, coming down the stairs. Brom snootily answers that yes, he didn't go to the claim that morning. "You should have told him," Al says, as if he's the Emily Post of the Old West or something. "I've had him here the last several hours in tears." He yells over to Dan, who is cleaning glasses behind the bar, that Garret is not dead. "Thank God," Dan answers, in serious tones. I love Dan.
Brom speaks plainly. He's no longer satisfied with his property and wants his twenty grand refunded. "In the heat," Al says, "you've confused me with Tim Driscoll." Brom says he knows Tim is no longer in camp. Au contraire, pansy boy -- Tim Driscoll is, as we speak, down at Wu's, uh, being the special of the day.
Garret goes a million miles in the wrong direction, coolly accusing Al of colluding with others, with whom he was "in cahoots," to cheat him on the claim. "It's the heat again, Brom," Al says, still jocular. "I don't collude and I don't cahoot." Brom decides to take the needle off the record. He asks Al if he's familiar with the Pinkerton Agency. All frivolity is now eliminated from Al's demeanor. "Why?" he asks. Brom says that his family is on great terms with the notorious detectives and that he'll call them in if need be, though he prefers they settle the matter "as gentlemen." Well, I can tell him for damn sure that he's come to the wrong place for that.
Al shoots a surreptitious look Dan's way. "Has he asked you to reconnoiter the rims with him at all?" Dan says that no, he hasn't. Brom wants to know what they're talking about; he is unfamiliar with this reconnoitering of the rims option. "The gold you found washed down from somewhere," Al says, "that's the law of gravity." He goes on, pushing the hard sell, that there must be more gold on the claim, probably up on the cliff rims. "And that's what you feel I should reconnoiter?" Brom says, like the dumb galoot he truly is. Al: "First place the Pinkertons would look. Unless I'm fucking wrong." Dan says no, that's how the Pinkertons operate. Al asks Dan if he'll go back out with Brom to reconnoiter the rims. Garret's buying it. He still thinks he has the upper hand, though, because he asks that, should no success comes from his and Dan's reconnoitering mission, Al make restitution on the claim -- "or do I have recourse to the [Pinkertons]." Al says yes. That if after all this reconnoitering Garret still wants his money back, he'll give it to him, "'cause you've got me by the fuckin' balls." Sure. Except that the last time anybody had Al by the fucking balls...well, that's probably never happened.
Al and Dan exchange a few more looks, especially when Garret turns on his way out to ask if he needs climbing gear. "You might want to bring a pickaxe," Al says, before muttering to Dan to "make it look like an accident."
Back at the hotel, Charlie has arrived and is bitching at Jane about letting Bill stay laid out in the hall. They whisper all crazily to each other until they accidentally wake him. "He's up," Jane says, exasperated. "I hope you're happy. Congratulations, cocksucker." Jane needs to get a little side job writing greeting cards, or something. "We hear you got a new job! Congratulations, cocksucker."
Charlie tells Bill that dinner's been cancelled due to the hardware boys' desire to get started building on their lot. Bill says okay before Jane starts in on Charlie again, complaining that she would have let Bill sleep all day if he wanted, and would not have disturbed him like Charlie has. Bill sighs, knowing he won't be able to get back to sleep, and asks Charlie if Sol and Bullock need help on that lot. Charlie is glad to hear him ask.
In their room, the Garrets are having a little spat. Mrs. G is doing that annoying thing where she speaks in her little whispery laudanum voice, and I hate it. But she's worried about this latest turn of events, and wonders why Brom has had to push Al with mention of his father and the Pinkertons getting involved. Alma is about 200 IQ points smarter than her husband, but powerless to say anything or do anything to discourage him -- she takes a shot at trying to convince him to think of the whole thing as an adventure and just leaving to see more of the West. But: no. Brom's all cocksure now, thinking he has bamboozled Al, the ultimate fighting machine of bamboozlement. He puts on a dandified outfit, tells her he hopes her "headache" gets better, and leaves to meet his fate.
From the balcony outside his office, Al observes the grand opening of the Bella Union. He's pissed. E.B. comes hemming and hawing up behind him -- Al's summoned him over to the Gem, apparently. E.B. takes a stab at trying to be casual, complimenting Al on the good house he's got downstairs. Al's not feeling it, though, and E.B. smells trouble. "I'm not in dutch am I, Al?" he asks, employing one of my favorite phrases. Without turning around, Al tells him to go ahead inside. It, uh, doesn't look good for E.B.
In the thoroughfare, as Bill hammers away on the hardware store, he runs into that old familiar problem celebrities always seem to have about fans not respecting their privacy. Some hooples come up, hats in hand, to Farley on him, and he's polite to a degree, but soon grows weary of it. (Especially when the hoople gets on a tangent going on and on about how great he is except as a stage performer, in which case he sucks.)You know, Lindsay Lohan has the same problem, all the time, and while she can go home and console herself by crying into a big pillowcase stuffed with money, Bill can't, because he keeps losing his money at cards.
Bill asks Bullock if he was born patient, or if he has cultivated it. Bullock smiles -- they are all laughing at the stupid, drunk hooples who are now arguing amongst themselves about how stupid and drunk they are. Bill assures the instigator that he is all right and was not offended by being told how bad an actor he is, but the thing escalates. In the midst of it all, Bullock thanks him again for being there to help out with the building. "Charlie encourages me being in your company," Bill says. "He feels you're a positive influence." Aw. Meanwhile, the second drunk hoople is rambling on about something, like an idiot, and Bill is fairly polite about asking him to move along, but he won't. Charlie puts it more plainly, and finally Bill has to say that he's tired of listening to the guy. The dude gets mad and pulls the whole you're-not-so-great thing, saying he hopes Bill gets what's coming to him, "and I hope it's sooner, rather than later." Nice work, stalker. He wanders off listing out a bunch of things he hopes happen to Bill: 1) getting gut-shot; 2) dying slow; 3) dying there in Deadwood.
Well, you know, it puts a damper on the little construction party. Can't a few guys drive in a few nails with their buddies without getting maligned by passersby? Charlie tries to salvage it by acting like nothing really happened, but Bill's had enough. He deserts them to "play some poker and drink some whiskey."
Up in Al's office, Al is giving E.B. the extreme third degree, trying to suss out whether or not E.B. knew about or was involved in the Bella Union coming to town. E.B. is shaking like a leaf. A sweaty leaf.
Out on the mountain, Ellsworth has made camp, and sees Brom and Dan heading up to the Garret claim. "Well," he says to his faithful dog, "the great prospector's found his second wind."
Al is now putting the slow burn on E.B. They have an intense round about trust -- Al says that, if he wanted to, he could burn down the whole fucking camp. E.B. tells him he was over at the Bella Union doing recon, trying to find out everything he could for Al. Finally, though, because Al is being so eerily silent, E.B. cracks. "Listen to me...listen to me," he sweats, "I was the go-between. It was me. But without malicious intentions!"
We leave E.B. in tears as we cut back to the mountainside. Brom and Garret have climbed up to the rim of the ridge. "Well," Garret says, "I confess to being winded." He's smiling as he turns to his prospecting helper, but sees a look in the other's eyes that he translates immediately. "Oh, no...Dan," he says, "no." He cries out for his mother as Dan throws him off the cliff.
Equally painful is E.B. as he explains to Al that it was simple greed that allowed him to be the go-between for the Bella Union. Al still hasn't said a word, but E.B. asks for mercy. "If you're gonna murder me," he says, "I'd appreciate a quick dying, and not getting et by the pigs, in case there is resurrection of the flesh." Way to cover your heavenly bases, E.B.
Al ponders it all for a moment, and then leans in close. "Stay friendly with them cocksuckers," he says. For the fiftieth time that day, E.B. has to ask the rhetorical question: "With them Bella Union people?" Al: "Can't help yourself, can you?"
Back at the claim, Dan has slid down the rockface to see to Brom. He finds Garret groaning on the ground with...a huge piece of ACTUAL GOLD in his hand. Oops. Looking furtively around, Dan says to no one: "You fell...but you'll be all right." Dan shines his light around the rocks again and sees the abundance of gold there to be had. With his only witness being Ellsworth, secretly watching from the bushes, Dan finishes the job, smashing Garret's head down on the rock to kill him.
At the Bella Union, Bill has found a new poker table. Cy speaks to his faro dealer, Leon, and it is revealed that though he is high on Al's dope, he's double-agenting for Cy. Al is having all his loyalties tested today.
In her room at the Grand Central, Jane is trying to explain to the little girl with a series of gestures that should Bill come back to the hotel that night, she'll be moving her over to a pallet on the floor so that Bill can use the bed. It's sweet -- Jane's hoping against hope that her hero will be there, just so she can platonically share the room with him. She tells the little girl to go to sleep, that she's watching over her, and the child rolls over and closes her eyes.
The battered Trixie, who still has bruises covering her face, is giving Al a pedicure in his bedroom. No, that's not a euphemism, you dirty sod. Good lord. Anyway, she's shaving his corns or whatever, when he tells her not to cut too deep. "Trust," he says, giving her a significant look. "Hell of a way to operate, huh? Leaning all the ins and outs of gettin' killed." She goes on with her work and he sharply tells her again not to go too fucking deep. He looks at her face. "Every beatin'...I'm grateful for. Every fuckin' one of them," he says, reminiscing about his past. "Get all the trust beat outta you. Then you know what the fuckin' world is."
Now, even Trixie, who probably endures daily beatdowns, finds this conversation too disturbing. She is glad when Dan suddenly knocks on the door, insisting that Al is going to want to hear his report. She goes out as Dan sits down. "It's one hell of a mixed report," Dan says. All Al wants to know is if the dude is dead. "Oh, it's done," Dan tells him. "He's gone." Al asks what's the mixture, then. "He went," Dan reveals, "owning one hell of a fuckin' gold strike." He tells Al that Garret is splattered at the bottom of the ridge, and Al gives instruction that he's to ride back out and bring Brom back in at dawn.
Dan leaves Al deep in thought. He calls Trixie back in, and she dutifully comes back to sit before him. "You want the other foot?" she asks, smiling through her bruises. "Yeah," answers the man who can't trust. "Please."