Deadwood is "mourning" Wild Bill Hickok in the only way they know how: by gawking at him. He's laid out in a tent in the middle of the thoroughfare and men are filing by, waving flies off his dead face, while the street merchant formerly known as "Soapy" hawks tufts of hair from the Indian head brought into camp in the last episode. to that line, two more lines are formed for those wanting to get involved in the trial of Wild Bill's killer, Jack McCall. Merrick is taking ballots of potential jurors and names of those currently residing in Deadwood who have been "admitted to the bar" to serve as lawyers representing both sides. Now...I don't know what law school was like back then, at all, but is it depressing to anyone else to imagine that lawyering was such a bad job that so many of them ended up in Deadwood? Conversely, can you imagine Johnnie Cochran in Deadwood? Please do. "If the cocksucker looks filthy, he must be guilty! If the whore won't commit, she must be made to submit!"
On the Gem's balcony above all the commotion, Al and Cy talk it over. Cy wonders how far into the process Merrick will stay involved. "Until them shysters take over," Al says with contempt, looking at the lawyers. Glancing across the way, he sees Mrs. G in her room at the hotel, all dressed in black and looking anxiously out her window. "I don't know what's become of the woman who was Mr. Hickok's friend," she tells Doc, who is there checking on the little squarehead girl. He says Jane is probably drunk over Bill's murder, and Mrs. G tsks that that's as well may be, but there is a child to be considered. Doc is just excited that the little girl is recovering very well, and ignores the implication that Mrs. G is not interested in looking after her. He does notice that Mrs. Garret is awfully nervy, and says that he doesn't see her "medicine" anywhere. She tells him she broke the bottle and he goes to pull out another one. "No," she says emphatically, and he comments that he doesn't see this as a good time to quit the laudanum. "Oh, what a pleasant surprise, Doctor," she bitches in a whisper, "to hear you admit the limits of your knowledge." I can't figure why Doc doesn't stab her with a scalpel or something, but he merely asks if she's made any travel plans. She tells him how Hickok had arranged with Bullock to serve as her proxy on the claim, and Doc says, relieved, that this will free her up to leave camp. Doc's a bit of a busybody, but he ain't wrong. She gives him and the kid a nauseated look.
In line to see Bill's body, Bullock can't deal with Soapy's hollering about the hair of the "dead heathen," on sale now. A guy behind him in line chooses the wrong moment to chat him up about the great boots Bullock sold him from the hardware store, and clenching out a "glad you're satisfied," Bullock charges over to Soapy and tells him to "cut that shit out." Soapy is nonplussed, saying there's no law against what he's doing. "No law either," Bullock says, "against me breaking your fucking jaw [if] you don't quit it." He snatches the stuff from Soapy and throws it in the fire, then turning on Tom Nuttall about this whole Bill-on-display thing going on. "Got him out here like some goddamn circus freak!" Tom says that whoa, he's not making money off this, that people just wanted to see Bill and pay their respects. He had tried, he says, to put him in a more discreet location, but the tent got trampled. Bullock is still mad, and stalks off.From above, like some Old West version of Statler and Waldorf, Al and Cy are still at it. "Man has a powerful temper," Cy says of Bullock. Al nods. "That hardware cocksucker," he says, "has been an ongoing pain in my balls since him and his partner showed up." Cy changes the subject, slyly asking if Al knows where the heathen's head ended up after the guy rode into town with it. "Yeah," Al says, "I don't know." I'm not sure why Al wants to keep this info from Cy, but he does, and smarts that if it's that important to Cy, he can look it up in his diary from yesterday. Oh, how I'd love to see Al's diary. "Monday: Had to kill a cocksucker today who was getting on my nerves. Why won't these hoopleheads ever learn? Note to self: beat whores on Wednesday." Al changes the subject, saying that as far as the trial of Bill's killer goes, he has no problem having the Gem act as host. "Loss of revenues, notwithstanding," he says, playing the magnanimous type. Happy as he is to host it, he tells Cy it's just about the dumbest thing the camp can do. He's worried that if the U.S. government hears they are holding legal trials, Deadwood's chances at being annexed will be in jeopardy. "We start holding trials," he asks, "what's to keep the United States fucking Congress from saying, 'Oh, excuse us, we didn't realize you were a fucking sovereign community and nation out there. Where's your cocksucker's flag; where's your fucking navy or the like?'" He goes on to say that when the government makes the treaty with the Sioux, they may treat the Deadwood residents like renegades, denying their gold and property claims. "That," Cy is certain, "we don't want." Al sighs. "But," he says, "if we're gonna have the fucking thing, might as well have it in my joint, huh?" Poor Al. His control issues are so over the top, he even has to control the shit he hates.
Outside in the street, Merrick is calling out the names of the jurors when Cy and Al walk to the front door to continue their little chat. Cy says the Bella Union is struggling to get their "craps concept" off the ground. Al says that's the way with any new idea, it takes the people in town time to adjust. He says he sometimes wishes he could just knock them all over the head, steal their wallets and throw their bodies in the creek. Only sometimes, Al? Smarmily, Cy notes, "But, that would be wrong." No, Cy, what's "wrong" is the crazy lavender top hat you're wearing, for which I cannot believe Al has not boxed your ears.
Bullock is grumpily watching the jury selection go on when Doc approaches him, announcing that he's just seen Mrs. G. Bullock pats his vest pocket, saying he has the proxy he needs her to sign. "You ought to go ahead and get that done," Doc says, "so she can go ahead and leave camp." Today is not the day to be giving Clench any helpful suggestions, though. "Anything else on your schedule I'm behind on?" he snappily asks Doc, who says no, sir, there isn't.At the hotel, E.B. is cooking up something foul for breakfast while being hounded by Mrs. G, who has apparently asked his guidance on someone who can take care of the little girl. "There's a cripple who'd do," E.B. says, "if I could pry her from Mr. Swearengen." Mrs. Garret asks how much money it would take to loosen his grip. "More likely Al would bridle at breaking his routine," E.B. says. "He likes to berate the gimp, mornings." Mrs. G has got the junkie shakes and says she can't see to the child, that the little girl needs someone less distracted. "I wish to see you extricated from all these complications and difficulties, Mrs. Garret," E.B. says, to which Mrs. G gives a little scoff. Like a knight in dirty armor, Bullock enters the hotel just as E.B. asks if Mrs. G has decided about his offer on the claim. Dang, too late, E.B. Bullock and Mrs. Garret introduce themselves to each other -- Mrs. G tells him that she watched him in the gunfight he and Wild Bill had a few nights . They share an awkward moment. Timothy Olyphant is, honestly, too hot for words sometimes, and even through her laudanum tremens, Mrs. G is feeling the clench, if you know what I'm saying. They go through the proxy paperwork, much to the extreme chagrin of E.B., who watches her sign away his chances of buying that claim. Saying he'll go to the Gem to see about hiring the aforementioned cripple, he wanders onto the hotel porch as if in a daze and steels himself to face Al.
Over at the Bella Union, other bad stuff is going down. Joanie comes down the stairs to find a fretting Cy. He wants to know how Andy's doing upstairs, and she tersely replies that "he's sick." Ever the humanitarian, Cy growls that "we ain't no hospital," and calls over one of his goons. "Number eight's relocatin'," he says. Cy tells the guy to bundle Andy up, shoot him up with dope, and take him to the hills. The goon has a pang of conscience. "Can someone else do it, Mr. Tolliver?" he asks, all guiltyfied. But see, Cy is in no mood for goons and their pangs. He gives the guy the eyebrow: "Sure they can," he says, full of sarcasm. "Shall I get someone else to take him?" The dude gets it, and says no, he'll do it. Cy snarls at him to burn the blanket afterwards, and shuffles off. Joanie is upset. "Some do get well, Cy," she says, though she doesn't say it with much confidence, and Cy snaps back that "his chances will improve outdoors." Oh, certainly. I believe the winter, 1878 issue of The Old-Timey Journal of Medicine recommended slinging smallpox victims out into the harshest climate possible and praying for their timely demise. Alternative therapies included dipping them in frozen lakes and/or covering them with scorpions.
Things are tough all over. At the Gem, Dan is setting up the room for the trial. From above, Al wonders what the hell he's doing, and Dan snappily asks if he wants the tables together, or not. "I don't want anything done that can't be undone five minutes after this fiasco concludes," Al says, adding in a sharp aside to Jewel to "clean somewhere where I can't see you." For someone who volunteered to have the thing at his place, he sure is being a bitch about it. Seeing the whores looking with curiosity on the preparations, he commands them to "Go on! Get fucking!" Sometimes I hate to love Al so much, actual tears come to my eyes. Speaking of tears, E.B. oils in and reports about the widow signing over her proxy to Bullock. This is the last thing Al wanted to hear. "Hickok," he says, "breaks my balls from the afterlife." E.B. shares his lament that Hickok, before his murder, orchestrated this whole thing to Mrs. G, and suggests a cunning plan. "She's trying to get off the dope," he says. "Maybe loaded, she'd get her self-confidence back." Al snarks that he'll go right out and suggest it to her. E.B. further relays that because "Hickok's half-woman friend," Jane, has gone off somewhere, Mrs. G needs to find care for the little squarehead girl. "I suggested the gimp," he says and, as Al gives an emphatic no on that subject, continues, "so as not to put a whore up, first off. Now I will propose Trixie." Al is intrigued. "As a get-acquainted gift," Al says, "she could bring the widow a good-sized ball of dope." Farnum says yes, that was just his idea. "Well thought through, E.B.," Al says, in congratulations, and E.B. says he's off "to see to my roast." Hee. Well, ain't E.B. a regular Betty Crocker. I shudder to think what he'll be serving with it. In the thoroughfare, Bullock is stopped by an anxious Rev. Smith. He wonders who will be "standing" for Mr. Hickok. Bullock doesn't know what he's talking about, and the Rev. says that since Charlie's traveling and he can't find Jane, he needs someone to guide him on certain matters. Bullock is still unclear. "For example," Rev. Smith says, trying to clarify. "I thought 'How Firm a Foundation.'" Bullock...still doesn't get it, which is sad, and Sol has to explain that the Rev is asking about which hymns to use for Bill's service. "Sounds a good choice," Bullock says, and just tries to clench himself together as the Rev continues his blabbery about other details. From the Gospel, he's thinking Corinthians 12 -- the salient portion of which, by the way, is "Now hath God set the members every one of them, in the body, as it hath pleased Him." Bullock is just OVER it, and Sol is giving the Rev a worried look, not only because of Bullock's obvious irritation, but because the Rev's frankly got a case of the weirds. Holding on tightly to his patience, Bullock says these are good choices, and the Rev wanders off, looking crazy but gratified. Giving Bullock a chance to take a deep breath, Sol asks if they're ready to open for business. Bullock can't answer, though, because...well, y'all know how like, in The Highlander (the movie, not the series -- hello, I don't watch that much bad television), that quickening feeling comes over the immortal dudes and they get all serious and gaze meaningfully stage-right as if guided by an unseen force, good or evil, they know not which? That's what happens to Bullock here. The Clenching. He goes all slo-mo, wordlessly walking away from Sol and into the thoroughfare. He is in high, hot rage, his mustache bristling with emotion as he heads toward Wu's -- who gives him a knowing, sideways glance -- and to the meat locker where the prisoner, Jack McCall is being held.
They dispense with pleasantries. "Hey, I know you," McCall slurs. "I know you, too," Bullock barely grits out through his teeth in the cold. McCall, who I suppose feels he has nothing to lose, goes for the heart. "I suppose after bumrushing me out of your fine fuckin' hardware establishment," he says, "you didn't see this coming, did you?" Good one, Jack. Bullock is not amused. "I halfway did, you droop-eyed cocksucker," he says, much to McCall's chagrin, who apparently feels like this is the time to split hairs. "I was born droop-eyed, all right?" he says, all defensive. "And who do you blame for the rest of the fuckin' mess?" Bullock retorts, and I begin to wonder when this fight is going to move off the playground. The answer is never, because, finally taunted into it, Bullock goes for McCall's throat. "What are you crying for?" McCall says, barely able to breathe. "Did you love Hickok so much? Was you sweethearts? Did he stick his dick up your ass?" Whoa, now, Jackie. You wouldn't understand the Proulxian man-love that dares not speak its stoic name, obviously. Don't even try. Saving him from certain throttling, Jack's legal counsel now appears and Bullock, with reluctance, leaves. The lawyer, who has a suspiciously small head under his huge top hat, pulls up a chair in front of McCall. "Well, I'm a hard case for you, counselor," McCall says. "And no mistake, everyone in there saw me shoot him." Smallhead smirks, like the shark he truly is. "If you'll let me set our strategy," he says. "I don't think we'll dispute what people saw." McCall: "Well, then, I guess you're here to break me out." Oh, but the shark has the last laugh. "Son," he says, leaning in, "did James Butler Hickok ever kill a relative of yours?" McCall isn't getting it. "Did he ever kill a brother of yours, or the like?" the lawyer asks, leading. McCall must have really had the air choked out of him just now not to see all, because the counselor has to pretty much lay it out for him. "I'm asking you...if what happened in that saloon," he says slowly, "was vengeance for the death of a family member...possibly a brother in Abilene, or the like." Light slowly dawns in Jack's dirty face. "A brother," he responds, "in Abilene..." The shark pats his knee. Now they're on the same page.
Speaking of evil, Cy's henchman (who I have finally figured out is Glenn Morshower, a tireless character actor who has been in all sorts of stuff, including such TWoP favorites as 24 and, inexplicably, Charmed, pretty much always playing cops) is now doing his dirty work out in the woods. He rolls Andy's body off the Bella Union sled and leans over him with a guilty face. "Look," he says, "I'm sorry as hell about all this. Sorry as hell." Nice, but you're leaving a fever-crazed man to die in the woods with his scabs and blisters and whatnot -- don't sit at home at night waiting on the Nobel committee to call. Andy is looking bad as the goon continues that despite Cy's orders, he's not going to burn the fucking blanket, and by the way, "fuck Cy." Andy is...less than cognizant, so less than understanding as the guy leaves, declaring that this is not his fault. He rides away, leaving the dying man begging for God's merciful deliverance.
In a dirty room in the dirty saloon, Trixie has a smoke while she looks out the window. Al walks in and tells her to clean up. "Am I on jury duty?" she jokes, and while it makes me giggle, I have to wonder how a woman with that many bruises on her face can give even the most minor backchat to He Who Stands On Necks. Al explains how he wants her to go and "help" the widow with the little girl. "[She's] a dope fiend," he says, reaching in his pocket. "She's been drinking it." He puts the ball of heroin in her hand and suggests Trixie "help her expand her horizons."Life has moved on at the Bella Union when Doc returns. He is surprised that there is no longer a guard outside of Room Eight. "Yeah," Cy drones, "Room Eight left." Doc is incredulous. "Borne by angels?" he asks, and Cy tells him to go on, that he doesn't have Room Eight to worry about anymore. Doc is not having it, though. "Sir," he says, with intensity, "I have no vaccine for the sickness the man in Room Eight 'didn't' have." He says that the closest place that has the vaccine is Ft. Kearny, and remarks with pointed sarcasm that if Cy wants to do anything remedy the epidemic "that you have no reason to believe will break out," then he ought to send someone over there right away. Cy smarms that if he sends someone, he'll let Doc know, but again, Doc just doesn't have time for this anti-public-health stance. In extreme frustration, he smacks the cashier's cage that separates them. "If you don't, and I have to," he says, "that will be known to every damn person in this camp!" With this, Doc snatches his hat and stomps out, leaving Cy with yet another problem to solve. He turns to another of his thugs. "Joey," he says, "have you ever had Nebraska pussy?" Joey, who looks like a slightly shorter but swarthier Dermot Mulroney, says that to his knowledge, he has not. Cy feigns shock and calls out Eddie from the backroom to hear this incredible news. Eddie, as always, plays along. "True or not, Eddie," Cy says, "when a man wets his end in Nebraska pussy, his life is changed forever." Joey smiles to hear this, and smiles even more when Eddie poetically confirms: "Speaking only for myself, I still mark the anniversary." I think this is my favorite Cy scene of this whole series, and it is made all the greater by the genius of Ricky Jay, who plays Eddie. He's a sly little man. Joey is all for it. "Well," he says, "point me in the right direction." They congratulate him on his healthy attitude and prepare to send him off.
In the office at the Gem, Al orders Johnny to set aside the Indian head for safe-keeping until after the trial. "It'll make a nice conversation piece," Johnny says, full of stupid. "I mean if it's handled the right way." My Lord, I love Johnny. Yes, yes -- Al is probably even now consulting Emily Post on "the right way" to handle his bloody severed head.
Speaking of bloody, E.B. is on his knees in one of his hotel rooms, scrubbing up the bloodstain left by Tim Driscoll. This will be tough to recap because, one, it's E.B., alone, monologue-ing for his life, and two, this scene contains what is possibly the greatest writing and acting of Season One. The overall gist is that E.B. has ferreted out the reason Al so badly wants to buy Mrs. G's claim. "There's gold on the woman's claim," he says, bitterly. "You might as well have shouted it from the rooftops." E.B. may be slimy, and he may be weak, but one thing he ain't is stupid. And now he's mad to a Shakespearean degree. So mad he sarcastically begins to quote what he believes is Al's secret mind: "'Thorough as I fleeced the fool she married, I will fleece the widow, too,'" he snarks, "'using loyal associates like Eustace Bailey Farnum as my go-betweens and dupes.'" E.B. has figured out Al's whole scheme -- all his bullshit about being afraid of the Pinkertons is just a scam to get E.B. to do all the legwork for him on the purchase. E.B.'s most upset that, should this sale go through, Al's just going to throw him a token payment, rather than cutting him in on the claim. I'd be mad, too. "'What's he ever done for me?'" he says, still speaking as Al's inner voice. "'Except let me terrify him every goddamned day of his life 'til the idea of bowel regularity is a forlorn fuckin' hope.'" He picks up the bucket to try to rinse away some of the blood. "'Not to mention ordering a man killed in one of E.B.'s rooms, so every...fucking...free moment of his life, he has to spend scrubbing the bloodstains off the goddamn floor...to keep from having to lower his rates." And with a final damning of Al's name, he throws up his arms in frustration. Court is in full swing at The Gem. I don't know my legal history at all, so I am not sure if this provides an accurate picture of what went on at such a proceeding, but they seem to have it pretty formally arranged. The prosecutor, a guy who resembles a ringmaster in appearance and vocal range, goes full-on Hamilton Berger on the jury, giving them a dramatic opening speech. "Christmas," Al mutters to Dan where they are observing from the second floor. "We'll be here 'til fucking Christmas." Merrick, dutifully recording all these goings-on for the paper, sits in the back, listening. The prosecutor tells the jury that their decision comes down to this: "Either a man giving you a dollar for breakfast is provocation beyond endurance, or Jack McCall shooting Wild Bill Hickok was murder, pure and simple." Al is glad to see that the guy picked up his pace there at the end, but now it's the defense counselor's turn. He stands and asks McCall why he killed Hickok. Jack takes a breath, trying to remember. "He murdered my brother...in Kansas," he says. The defense attorney considers this enough on which to rest his case, but the prosecutor gets back into it, loudly, asking the accused when this brothercide supposedly took place. Jack says he can't rightly recall, and that no, he wasn't there when it happened, but, uh, it really did happen. As Jack fumbles around with these answers, Al sends Dan down to tell the judge he wants to see him. Giving credence to Al's bad-ass status, the judge orders a break in the middle of this questioning and goes to Al's office.
Back at the hotel, Trixie has come to introduce herself and help Mrs. Garret with the little girl. She smiles at the child and turns to Mrs. G, saying that she's sorry about her husband. The all-in-black Mrs. G gives a curt nod, and says that she was under the impression Trixie was "hurt." Which is weird, because Trixie still has bruises covering half of her face, so she is in fact hurt, but Mrs. G goes on to explain that E.B. had told her that the woman coming "had some sort of physical liability." Trixie gets it -- Mrs. G was expecting "the gimp." Trixie: "Oh, I'm not her," she says. "She's lovely, though, Jewel." Trixie asks if she can bathe the little girl, and Mrs. G says yes, but tells her that the child does not speak English. Trixie smiles. "I'm Trixie," she tells the girl. "Trixie."
Al is meeting with the judge in the privacy of his office. "You want a blow job while I talk to you?" Al asks, pouring whiskey for them both. The judge says no, prompting Al to clarify that he wasn't offering to give him one personally. Al tells that judge that before a guilty verdict could ever be rendered on McCall, someone would come in and slit his throat, "and within half an hour those celestial's little pigs would be on their backs, with their hooves in the air, belching up human remains." Al really missed his calling as a children's book writer, huh? The judge wonders if Al would himself order McCall's murder, but plays coy. "I'm saying," he says, "that I had a vision it would happen. My second of the day." His first vision, he says, came when watching all the lawyers line up in the morning -- "they began to slither in my sight, like vipers. So as not to puke, I had to close my eyes..." Al says the vision went on and got worse. "I saw the vipers in the big nest, in Washington," he says, and tells how the big vipers heard about the trial and thought Deadwood was setting up their own laws, and thus planned to "swallow us up and every fucking thing we gain here." He takes a swig of whiskey while the judge, looking pained, stares straight ahead. "It was horrible," Al continues. "How could we let the vipers in the big nest know that we didn't want to cause any fucking trouble?" The judge asks if after all this about vipers was when Al had his second vision, about McCall getting his throat cut. "Yeah," Al says, "but who wants all the blood, Judge? Huh?" Al asks pointedly if there isn't a way of not pissing off the "big vipers." The judge thinks, takes a shot, and goes back to the trial. Meanwhile, Bullock is staring gloomily at the ground outside his hardware place. Sol wonders how the trial is going, and says the men of Deadwood should have taken McCall into the territory's boundaries to be tried there. "Hang 'im here," he says, "and they'll be opening a can of worms." After a pause, he comments that it's really all a can of worms, and Bullock agrees. The Rev comes up at this moment to ask for help with Bill's body.
Waiting on the trial to resume, Dan asks Al if he and the judge had a good talk. "We'll see," Al says, and Dan points out a dude on the jury who he knows for a fact hated Hickok and said he deserved to die. Al is pleased to hear this -- if the jurors declare McCall innocent, this can all go away, which is what he wants. The prognosis looks good for this as the judge calls the court back into session and immediately declares that, because the camp is part of no state or nation, they really don't have the law to decide the case. From his table in the back, Merrick starts to look worried. "How, then, are you to decide it?" the judge continues. He says that they must rely on common custom -- it's not in dispute that McCall killed Hickok, but if the jury believes that McCall killed for revenge, then "custom dictates that you excuse him." Now Merrick looks really worried. "The jury will now retire to the whores' rooms," the judge says, "and begin their deliberations." Al seems satisfied with this, and orders Dan to open the bar and "get the girls fucking 'til the jury comes back." Well, you know, Al's a businessman. If the jury's going to use the downstairs room to screw justice, the customers might as well use the upstairs rooms to do some screwing, as well.
Out in the clearing, Andy is still begging God to take him. "I hurt so much now," he says, as Jane comes out of the woods and finds him there. She's drunk as a monk and, looking down on him, says he's one sick fucking customer. Andy's out of it, continually apologizing to God, asking for forgiveness. "Don't apologize to me," Jane slurs, "I don't even fuckin' know you." She may be boozed up, but she's not rude, and offers her crazy, half-dead new friend a drink of whiskey. "No lippin' the bottle," she says, "but I got a pretty steady pouring hand." In his stupor, Andy can't quit apologizing, and can't take a drink. "Hey," Jane says. "My best friend died. The man I had my best friend-feeling about in the world." Aw, Jane. I have to pause here to keep from crying, because something about that just kills me. "Took you as he found you," she continues about Bill. "Thought the best of you. Sweet to me." She chokes up as Andy apologizes yet again. It occurs to her that maybe what the sick man needs is water, and says she'll go and get him some from the creek. "But if you don't stop apologizin'," she says, "I'm not gonna give you a goddamn drop." Andy can't stop, though, and moans out another, receiving a "SHUT THE FUCK UP" from Jane. A little-known fact of history is that Florence Nightingale was exactly the same way. Back in Mrs. G's room, Trixie has bathed and dressed the little girl while Mrs. G looks on, sweaty and nervous and having the shakes. "Are you poorly?" Trixie asks, showing that she knows that Mrs. G is coming off the laudanum. "Are you afraid?" she asks, and Mrs. Garret says yes, she is. "I was awful afraid when I was stopping," Trixie says. "First I was afraid I was gonna die, and then I was afraid I wasn't. And then one day I woke up, free." Mrs. G is hurting bad and kind of crying about it.
Back at the Bella Union, Eddie has a confession to make. "May I confide?" he says to Cy. "I've never been laid in Nebraska." Cy acknowledges that it helps to unburden oneself. Hee. Eddie asks Cy what he sent Joey to get, but Cy ain't telling. They're interrupted when Joanie comes downstairs, all dressed up. "It's quiet," she says. "I thought I'd see Hickok buried." They have a little power struggle about it, and she goes out, shaking her head. "Conscience-struck," Cy says. "Needs to sing a hymn." Eddie nods. "She liked Andy," he says, and Cy flatly responds that he did, too.
Doc is in the back of his shack when Trixie knocks. She says that a few years ago she took powders for cramping -- she wants more, but is not sure what was in them. She says they were brownish in color and she put them in her tea. "Well, if it's the monthlies," he says, "I generally prescribe a day or two of laudanum to help with the cramps." Ohhh, if only my own doctor was as forward-thinking. Of course, I have my own home remedy for cramps and that is Tylenol plus Diet Coke from the can, not the bottle. I'll use Diet Coke to cure anything, though. I know it has cocaine in it -- it always makes me feel better to drink it, so don't try to tell me it doesn't. Anyway, Trixie says that it was coming off the laudanum that gave her the cramps in the first place. Doc is worried that she's taken it back up again, but Trixie says no, "It's the rich woman who wants to stop." Doc: "And what's that to you?" Trixie: "Or to you, why I'd be interested?" Doc knows when he's beaten and goes to his herbs, pulling off sprigs of this and that and going to grind them up. Trixie thanks him, and Doc says it's the least he can do, considering what's coming (meaning, no doubt, the showdown he can foresee brewing between Mrs. G and Al over the gold claim). Trixie wonders what he's talking about, and with a twinkle in his eye, Doc asks, "What would that be to you?"
At the Gem, the jury has returned from their deliberations. All is quiet when the judge asks for the verdict. The foreman declares the slack-jawed McCall "innocent," and Merrick rushes out while the crowd goes straight for the bar. Nodding, Al turns to Dan: "Don't ever knock this camp to me." Rev. Smith is really warming to his sermon at Bill's graveside. He's cranking out the letter to the Corinthians at full volume, feeling every word and trying to get across to the heathens among him that all people should care for each other, and that when one person suffers, all suffer with him. "I believe in God's purpose, not knowing it," he says. "I ask Him, moving in me, to allow me to see His will. I ask Him, moving in others, to allow them to see it." Bullock remains clenched throughout, not appreciating the Rev's pointed words. They sing "How Firm a Foundation" as the coffin is lowered into the ground. It's lovely, but I've got to nitpick -- why have this vast church music knowledge and never use it? -- I don't like that there's a guitar and fiddle up there at the graveside. That is highly unlikely, and it is even more unlikely that those gathered would be used to singing hymns with such instruments. Plus, the hymn's too slow -- I know these people are a bunch of outlaws, but somebody's granny must have taught them shaped-note singing, come on. I know. It's a stupid nitpick, especially considering the pretty touch it gives the scene, so...just ignore me. Bullock helps lower in the coffin and is looking like he's close to losing it when Merrick comes over to make it all worse: "They turned him loose," he says, tears on his cheeks. "They turned him loose." Those gathered sing on as Merrick sneezes uncontrollably, and Jane watches from a nearby hill, crying.
When all is said and done, Sol and Bullock wait while the Rev says a final word of prayer. Bullock is impatient and angry. "Can we get started?" he asks Sol, who says that the Rev is nearly done. "Oh," Bullock smarts back. "You can tell?" Sol gives him a "damn, girl" look and the Rev finishes up. As they head back to the camp, he blabs on and on about how thankful he is for both men's kindness toward him. He recalls their original meeting and asks Bullock what he feels will now be "his part" regarding the death of Hickok. Bullock rudely responds that he doesn't know what the Reverend is talking about. Sol tries to make it up, telling the Rev that the camp was lucky he was there today. "Oh, I'm a frail and feeble vessel," he says, "but none of us can deny our parts..." He's interrupted by Bullock, who asks if they can continue their damn walk in silence. Shamed, the Rev says certainly. "Sorry, Reverend," Sol says, tipping his hat a little. I'll say it again: poor Sol, having to deal with his PMS-y friend who is so upset about the (albeit unfair) death of a man he met like, five days ago, he bitches out the sweet Rev.
The Gem is back to business as usual when Merrick comes in and orders a drink. Down the bar he sees McCall signing autographs and bragging, and he just can't stand it. Loudly, he declares that anyone ever having the misfortune of needing to kill a man should do it in Deadwood so as to avoid justice. Jack looks only slightly chagrined at this, and anyway is distracted by Al. "Hey, what's your name?" Al asks, sidling up. "It's Jack, isn't it?" Jack brashly says that it is, and waving his glass at Al, he says if Al will buy him a drink, he'll make his mark. Uh, Jack? All these days you've been in camp, gambling and killing people and stuff...did you not hear about Al at any point? Obviously not. Al pulls away his glass. "Stick around camp, Jack," he says, "and I'll make [my mark] for you." Nervous, Jack asks him what the hell's that supposed to mean. Al does not mince words. "It means there's a horse for you outside you want to get on," he says, "before somebody murders you who gives a fuck about right and wrong. Or I do." This is the kind of direct communication which cuts through the grime in Jack's ears. As if to a child, Al continues. "It's the paint, Jack," he says. "Right outside my joint. Run for your fucking life." Jack need hear no more. Looking around, he declares that "Jack McCall runs from no man," and, having said that, runs. Shaking his head, Al tells Dan to remember, someday when he's running his own place, not to let guys like McCall hang around. They agitate the customers, he says, and while this brings a nice bump in whiskey sales, it results in a reduction on the whore trade. "That's why I often wonder," he says, referring to a great American agitator of a different nature, "if I should take that fucking picture of Lincoln down." Outside, Jack jumps on the paint and rides out of town, past Bullock and Sol, the latter of whom gives the former an "aw, shit" look.
Back out in the woods, Jane has returned from the creek seemingly drunker than when she left. Andy looks...well, really bad. "Are you dead?" Jane yells, pouring water down his throat. He sputters it out, showing that he's not dead, but close to it. Jane is relieved and sits down to him, which just goes to show how intoxicated she is, seeing as how Andy's looking like something out of a zombie movie by this point. She tells him how when she was down at the creek, she saw the body of Brom Garret, whom they are keeping cool for shipping back east. I'm sure, were he at all in his right mind, this would make Andy feel just great about drinking that water. "The widow's got the little one, now," Jane says. "I had her for a while, but I ain't the type she should be with long-term. Fuckin' drunk, and so forth." She's trying to hold it together, but openly weeps when she tells him how she heard voices down at the creek and, drawn to the singing, came upon Bill's funeral. Andy, for what it's worth, seems like he'd be real sad to hear about this, were he not basically, himself, a dead body. Despite having no one to really notice, Jane is embarrassed about her crying and boozily tries to recover. "Now, there's a bird I ain't never seen before," she says to Andy's prone body. "Shall I talk about it to you?" Jane makes me cry sometimes, seriously.
In his tent back at camp, the Rev is having problems. What first seem to be the shakes turn into a violent seizure. Y'all, the Rev is bad off. Bad. He falls to the ground, flailing, and no one stops to help him.
Back at their store site, Bullock is pissily disrobing to continue working on the building, complaining about how loony the Rev was acting at the funeral. "Did he look pale to you?" Sol asks, looking concerned. Bullock wants to know how the hell he was supposed to know if he was pale or not. "Let's say he was," he snaps. "Will you shut up about it?" Sol looks all embarrassed, and I wish he'd smack his buddy in the head, but he lets Bullock go on. "What is my part, and your part?" he says, making fun of the Rev's sermon. "What part of my part is your part? Is my foot your knee? What about your ear? What the fuck is that?" Now, wait a second. Clench has a sense of humor? Because that is funny, though no less assholish. Sol's all kicking the dirt around and says he doesn't know. "What don't you know?" Bullock snaps again. "If he was pale or not?" Har har. No, Sol says, "what you're supposed to do." Bullock literally throws down the hammer. "I'm not supposed to DO anything," he yells. "Let's agree to that! Not one fucking thing that I don't decide I'm gonna, all right, Sol?" However, all of this grouching is accompanied by him jerking his vest and coat back on, as he clearly readies himself to indeed go do something. "All right," Sol says, and then has to remind his fit-pitching friend to put up his suspenders. This just makes Bullock more angry. "If I kill the droop-eyed sonofabitch," he says, "and my part is getting hanged for it, good luck with the fucking store." Sol smiles a little and says all right. Bullock says he'll write to his wife and asks Sol to look after the widow. Sighing, he asks if Sol will pack him a bag, and goes clenching off to make his plans. Upstairs at the Bella Union, Joanie is bathing her whores. Yes, yes. Ahem. Where was I? Naked chicks. Right. Cy opens the door and asks if Joanie got the prayin' out of her system, to which she responds by grabbing one of the girls and kissing her, hard. Cy watches for a minute, torn between enjoying and resenting this demonstration of Joanie's independence from him, and finally closes the door.
Jane is still looking after poor ol' Andy out in the woods. He looks even more dead than before as Jane wets his lips with a rag and hums "How Firm a Foundation." We hear the strains continue as we see Trixie at the hotel, fixing up some restorative tea for Mrs. G and playing pattycake with the little orphan girl.
Back in the thoroughfare, Bullock makes a final stop by his tent, picks up the bag his friend has packed for him, and tears out on Jack McCall's trail, leaving Sol to watch with a worried look.