Al meets with Bullock to propose the sheriff use his Montana connection to make Yankton jealous about annexing Deadwood. Wolcott writes to Hearst, reporting on the state of the gold claims they have consolidated. Things are going well in that regard, and even better when Wolcott arranges for the purchase of the Manual brothers' claim. Doc is getting increasingly pissed off about the Chinese whores and their extreme, inhuman ill-treatment. Tom Nuttall receives a bicycle he's ordered, much to the delight of the entire camp. Odds are set on the success of his inaugural ride down the thoroughfare, and all of Deadwood comes out to watch. A new telegraph operator, Blazanov, has arrived in town, and has set up shop in Merrick's headquarters. Ellsworth is a bundle of nerves -- he's decided to propose marriage to Mrs. G, and does so. She asks that he give her time to consider it. Speaking of Mrs. Garret, she and Mrs. Bullock have a very subdued showdown. That whole "woman scorned" thing is becoming more of a gray area as Mrs. Bullock realizes what has gone down in her absence and how it is likely to affect the rest of her life as Bullock's wife. Jane is very, very bad off and Charlie is at his wit's end trying to figure out what to do with her. She can't stay sober. He suggests she go and talk with Joanie, as she could use a friend, as well as protection from Wolcott. Joanie, though, handles her bidness with Wolcott pretty well, when he pays her a visit. Al's still running all his ideas past a severed Indian head.
"What did you know about me, Bullock, first we met," Al asks Bullock, as we open with them meeting at the Gem. "No concern for my feelings, huh?" Bullock doesn't even clench before he answers: "That you were a killer."Al has to nod in acceptance. "Certain facts show in the mug," he says. Dolly walks by at this moment, and Al demonstrates his theory by pointing out certain facts about her. "Look at her," he says. "You know she's fucked for food." Bullock (along with the rest of us) wonders what Al's point could be. "In your mug," Al explains, "there's no such history." Is Bullock a c*nt-driven near-maniac, or a stalwart, Al wonders. He says no one can tell by looking at Bullock's face, because Bullock doesn't know himself. "But you do make a good appearance, so they're prone to grant you their trust," Al concludes, "which we will use as an asset in the coming campaign."
Bullock still ain't getting it. "What's the campaign?" he asks. Al asks for confirmation that Bullock does indeed have a friendship with a judge back in Montana. Bullock says he's cut ties with Montana judge. "Amiably, or owing money?" Al asks. Bullock's had enough of this cat-and-mouse business from Al and tells him that "maybe you're mistrusted less as a killer, than showing your cards one at a time."
Finally, Al explains. He wants to know if Bullock still has pull in Montana so that they can put pressure on Yankton, causing the Dakota big cheeses to believe that Montana is trying annex Deadwood. "Hikin' our skirts to Helena might put Yankton back on its heels," Al says. He goes on to say that he wonders if they shouldn't ruminate publicly, "in loud voices," over forming a new territory, with an eye towards future statehood, "or even our own republic." I knew Al was a militia man.
Bullock thoughtfully strokes his goatee and snarks, "No dictatorship." Al is not amused. "What the fuck do we need a dictatorship for, that silences the public voice? That eases the enemy's way." Al says what he's after is using Bullock to stir up interest among the hoopleheads in rallying behind this potential Montana angle. Bullock says he's not interested. Al leans in for the kill. "Will we, of Deadwood, be more than targets of ass-fucking?" he asks. "To not grab ankle, is to declare yourself interested. What's your posture, Bullock?"
Bullock sighs, and answers, "As you see." Ha! Posture. Al: "Huzzah, then." With that, he raises his glass in tandem with a boozehound who has been watching from the bar.
At the Bella Union, Wolcott is writing a letter to his boss. I wonder what a handwriting expert would have to say about Wolcott. I am sure even his grocery list would read like the Unabomber manifesto to the modern-day FBI: "Eggs? Milk! GLADE PLUG-INS?! Call out the National Guard!"
The letter describes his high level of success in buying up and consolidating the gold claims around Deadwood. He also tells Hearst that though he knows he is anxious to go to a 24-hour collection system, "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." As the voice-over continues, we see these Germans and Cornish in -- WANG ALERT! -- all their GLORY, being showered after working in the mines all day. This is done so that the gold flake they've hidden in their greasy hair gets washed out, and their nudity makes it easier for them to receive BODY CAVITY SEARCHES, as we see happen to one gentleman who then tries to make a full-frontal nude break for it, getting shot in the process. Okay, note to Deadwood producers: While the attempts at historical accuracy on this marvelous show are certainly appreciated, it is not wholly necessary to, you know, have the, uh, dicks be -- how shall I say it? -- historically accurate, if you know what I'm saying, and I pray to God you do.
Wolcott goes on to explain that he is attempting now to arrange for the purchase of a large claim owned by the Manuel brothers, the success of which will mean that the Hearst interest will own, save Mrs. Garret's claim, "every considerable deposit now discovered." In conclusion, he says he looks forward to showing Hearst around "the largest and most forward-looking gold operation in the world." He closes with his name, and I guess does not think it quite the right moment to include the postscript: "PS: I recently killed three women. No big."
Over at the bar, Doc is reporting to Cy following his scheduled exam of the Bella Union whores. One of the girls may have the clap. Cy says they'll "take her off the firing line." Doc already looks pissed when he asks Cy if he's the one in control of the new Chinese whores in town. Cy says he is. "I'd be available to see to their care," Doc says, "like I do these, here." Cy declines this offer, with thanks. That tears it for Doc -- he tells Cy that beyond their other afflictions, the Chinese girls are starving to death. Cy's all not-my-problem, and gives the classic racist response: "I strive to tolerate what I may not agree with," he says, "but...those people's culture...the women are disposable. They ship them unfed, replace them when they expire." Doc is about to blow, so Cy tries to placate him further by saying he thinks the girls are dosed with opium, which eases their pains. Oh, well then, everything's fine. Except, no, it ain't. Doc is shaking with rage. "Well," he says, picking up his bag, "under this arrangement, I withdraw my care for your whites."
Cy protests, but Doc is adamant. "No," he says, "I need to live, too." Cy, because he's an asshole, thinks Doc is trying to get more money out of him. Doc says he'd look after the Chinese girls for free, so Cy agrees. "Here, too," he says, "let me tolerate a different point of view." Ah, yes, Cy. So magnanimous of you to tolerate the point of view that human life is of value. Thanks.
A coach has arrived in the thoroughfare, bearing arrivals and packages. Nuttall is there to receive his order, which is, of all things, a bicycle. Al, watching from his balcony, shouts down to ask if Nuttall is "studying on a getaway." Nuttall is thrilled: "Ain't she a beauty, Al?" he calls up, grinning from ear to ear. Merrick, right in the middle of things, explains that the French call this bike "the velocipede, meaning 'go swiftly into the world.'" Nuttall tells him the bike is called "the gent's bone shaker model, and the French can stay the fuck out of it!" Everybody is laughing and happy to see the crazy bike. Johnny calls up to Al -- "How's that for a contraption, boss?" -- and Al has to ruin the mood, telling him to go to E.B.'s hotel and summon Miss Isringhausen. A thought occurs to Johnny. "E.B. ain't been over for coffee..." he says. Al: "Should I ask if Farnum's come for coffee before I get you to summon that c*nt." Johnny goes off on his mission, chastised, and Al turns to his new best friend, the head in the box (HitB), telling him that "dead, and without a body, you still outstrip [Johnny] for intelligence."
Back down below, a man is descending from the coach, looking for Merrick. When the men introduce themselves, we learn that this new diminutive visitor is Mr. Blazanov, the camp's new telegraph operator. I hope I'm spelling his name right. HBO won't tell me. His company has rented space in Merrick's offices, and Merrick is all too happy to show him around. Blazanov asks if his telegraph apparatus has been "guarded from interference." Poor Merrick has to tell him that some nights have been better than others as far as apparatuses being interfered with.
We cut quickly to Al, watching the two men and telling the HitB, "Now, there's a fucking pair to draw to."
Blazanov says he hopes that no one has messed with the machine and been "blistered with fierce voltage" from the electrical fluid. Merrick smirks, saying he hasn't seen evidence of anyone being blistered, and makes it clear his hopes are the opposite of Blazanov's in that regard.
Nuttall is still celebrating the arrival of his bicycle when William and Martha Bullock make their way past. Nuttall asks William if he likes his new ride. "They call that type a bone shaker, sir!" William says, and Nuttall laughs, saying, "They do, for a mortal truth!"
Taking a break from supervising Mrs. Garret's claim, Ellsworth is having a conversation with...his dog. I am glad to see the dog's still around. I support all terriers working in the fine arts. Ellsworth is gnashing over this idea Trixie has put in his head about proposing to Mrs. G. "Mightn't the Lord give second chances?" he asks the dog. "Here she comes with that little one beside her and another she fixes to produce," he goes on, "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." He's getting no argument from the dog, who looks to be in full agreement, but he goes on. "Now, what harm is there in believin' that not takin' the chance might be a confoundin' of His will?" The dog stares steadily on, and Ellsworth says he'll take his silence as a show of fuckin' support.
Blurrrrg. At the Grand Central, Mrs. G opens her door to Mrs. Bullock and William. Why, Milch? Why? I'm going on record as saying that I hate cat-fight plots with a burning passion, and while I understand that Bullock is hot stuff and all, it will frustrate me if these two women come to loggerheads over him when they SHOULD be tag-teaming him in the street in a world-class smackdown, Springer-style. That's all I'm saying.
Anyway, Mrs. G is a bundle of nerves -- though looking very pretty with her hair down -- and Martha is not exactly calm herself. They do the necessary chit-chat, and William tells Mrs. G that her room smells awfully nice. She says it's because they had berry tea before Sophia's lesson. She offers the Bullocks some of this tea, and while Martha accepts, William declines, kind of turning up his nose like a kid will do. Apparently, he doesn't like tea (which will make him unpopular in Deadwood, where it seems to have recently become all the rage).
Sophia comes in, and Mrs. G suggests she take William and show him "your corner in our other room." Whispering, she tells her to show William her books, not toys. Wait a second, wait a second. Her corner? Even Harry Potter has a room under the stairs, Mrs. G! Sophia watches her family get hacked to death, has to escape a murder plot against her by Al, lives with a bitchy recovering laudanum addict, is babysat by a prostitute, has to learn an new language, gets trudged up and down the stairs by a fake tutor while her new mom gets it on all day and night with the town sheriff, and...she gets a CORNER. Cue those Disney mice singing "Cinderell-y, Cinderell-y!"
Anyway, again. The children go off to the CORNER, and the two women continue their nervous conversation. Mrs. Bullock apologizes for busting in on them, but she feels an urgency, she says, about the whole matter of the camp's lack of a teacher. Martha says she feels like she's adequate to guide William's study, but doesn't want him being educated in solitude. Mrs. G asks Martha what she proposes, and Mrs. Bullock says she wants to teach the camp's children, herself. For some reason, Mrs. G finds this suggestion disturbing -- I suppose because it brings home the fact that she's really going to have to deal with the Bullock family on a daily basis, from now on. She gets up and fumbles around with the matches at the stove, trying to heat water for the tea. She drops them everywhere, and apologizes, saying, "On a second opportunity, with adequate notification, we will meet you in order and readiness." Here, Martha should let it go, because you know, Mrs. G is right -- it's annoying when someone drops by and your place is a mess and you can't get your tea on. But she doesn't. "I seem always to come upon you with inadequate notice," she says. And HERE, Mrs. G should let it go, because, shit...she just should. Instead, her face goes cold and she answers that "as you remarked, simple courtesy would forestall that." Snap. But Mrs. Bullock ain't going down like that. "I'm trying to imagine," she says, "what courtesy of mine would have forestalled the last awkwardness between us."
Ugh. Mrs. G looks like she's about to rip off her wig, but coolly steps forward, asking if Mrs. Bullock wishes to take Sophia under her care "as well." And now, at last, the situation becomes really contrived when Mrs. Bullock asks, "As well as whom, Mrs. Garret?" Mrs. G: "Why, Mrs. Bullock, as well as your son. Whom else would I mean?"
I'm so glad that's over.
Meanwhile, at the Gem, Miss Isringhausen has come a-callin' on Al. Walking into his office, she kind of bumps into him. She excuses herself, blaming the change of light for her imbalance. "Pupils slow adjusting..." Al cracks, "Hope that don't owe to morphine." Miss Iz says no. "Anyhow," Al says, "thanks for brushing against my prick."
Miss Iz sits, and Al calls Dan in and makes his proposal on their deal. He proposes that she give him $50,000 now, when he signs a document confessing that he had Dan commit the murder of Brom Garret on commission of "his faithless wife." Then, Al says, Miss Iz is to sign a second document, "detailing that during transport to New York for trial, along with faithless wife, Dority escapes custody." Wrapping up, Al restates the terms: "Fifty now you to me; ten now you to Dority; ten now you to Adams." I am glad to see he's looking out for Adams and Dan, who looks taken aback, but says nothing.
Miss Iz agrees to this proposal, but with amendments. "Twenty-five 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 twenty-five." Al smiles, nods, and agrees, seemingly impressed. She asks if he'll draft Dority's confession, and he says he'll draft "both fuckin' documents." He then asks her to see herself out so that he can "explain myself to the guilty party," indicating Dan. She heads out the door, but not before Dan can ask if she want to "brush ag'in my prick?" Tacky, Dan. She ignores him and exits, leaving Al to comment, much to Dan's disgruntlement, that she has a good head on her shoulders, "unlike some other parties in this room."
Down at Nuttall's, the bar owner is happily showing off his new bike. The shit-stirrer from the last two episodes is STILL in the bar and STILL not dead, despite my many requests, and asks aloud if Nuttall supposes, "had the inventor moved among us, he'd have made a model more suited to sink holes?" Nuttall says that, guided and pedaled correctly, the bike will ride smooth. In order to demonstrate, I guess, a boozehound from the crowd makes a move like he's going to test the bike out. Nuttall shoos him off, to the delight of the gathered drunks.
Merrick is apparently taking Blazanov on a sight-seeing tour, and they make their way into Nuttall's now, during all this excitement. "So," Blazanov asks, referring to Wild Bill Hickok's last card game, "this is the famous place of death." Merrick confirms, and points out the table at which Bill died. Blazanov says he read the account, perhaps by Merrick's own hand. Aw. They are interrupted when Nuttall declares, "My bicycle masters boardwalk and quagmire with aplomb. Those that doubt me, suck cock by choice." The troublemaker asks if that signals his willingness to wager. Nuttall says goddamn right. "Surely odds must differ between quagmire and boardwalk." Nuttall is incredulous: "I don't speak of the quagmire lengthwise!" Ah, well, I mean, if you're going to get technical about it, Nuttall.
He and the other guy set terms as to where the quagmire starts and stops and agree on 8-1 odds, taken to 100. "I will swoop across it," Nuttall declares. Even money is taken on the boardwalk -- loose board to be nailed, commerce suspended, animals, drunks and sundries to be cleared from Nuttall's passage. The whole bar lays their money down to take odds. Merrick asks if he can have time to get his camera ready, and Nuttall mutters for him to go on, shouting again that any of those gathered who doubt him "suck cock by choice!"
Sheriff Bullock has stopped home for lunch. He's barely in the door before she's telling him that she didn't have time to make a hot lunch after her meeting with Mrs. Garret. He says that's fine. She's pissy, though, kind of slamming things around, and he makes the tragic mistake of not asking what's wrong. I mean, I guess if he had asked, that would have been a mistake as well, because Mrs. Bullock is kind of beside herself. She says out of nowhere that Mrs. G thought it "wonderful" that she had proposed to teach the camp's children, and when Bullock gives her a practically silent "good," turns to the sink sniffling about how anyone would have felt sorry for a woman left alone after her husband died, especially someone like Bullock. He...says nothing, probably wondering how he's going to get out of this one, alive. She changes the subject, mentioning Nuttall's bike, and saying how excited William was to see it, and then walks out, leaving Bullock in confused, strained silence.
Barf. No, really, barf -- Jane has done just that on the side of Charlie's building. She is bad off, worse than ever. Charlie comes up and catches her in the act. "That's mighty good for bidness," he says. She yells at him to shut up. He tells her that there's a girl, Joanie, sitting alone in the new whorehouse down the street, and that maybe Jane could go down and talk to her, seeing as how she's also lost a friend. "How does standing in my own puke," Jane asks, "prompt you to volunteer me to give a condolence call?" Charlie asks, "Why fuckin' wouldn't it, Jane?" and wonders if she likes bein' situated how she is. Jane looks at him, and asks what fuckin' friends she lost, anyway.
At the hardware store, Trixie's working on her fuckin' decimals when Bullock comes in. Sol sidles up and wants to chat more about the bank. He asks Bullock what he'd think about a certain lot for the bank building, and Bullock starts out saying he could see arguments in favor of it. Sol says it's the location of the lot that is its great virtue. "Under all the circumstances," Bullock clenches, "I disagree." You gotta feel for Sol, you know? I mean, his good buddy is so much like a premenstrual teenage girl sometimes, and he does his best to handle it. He asks if the location is "too central." Bullock is frustrated. "Not too central, no," he says, overly loud. "I'm thinking more the chief backer might find unpleasant this building always being in her view." Sol says he sees, but Bullock doesn't drop it, instead snarkily asking if there's anything further Sol needs explained "chapter and verse." Sol says that he just hadn't understood that the drama between Bullock and Mrs. G continued so tender. "It ain't tenderness, avoiding provocation," Bullock practically spits through the clench, "it's common fuckin' courtesy." Quietly, Trixie interjects: "Which neither of you's showin' fuckin' much toward me."
At the Bella Union, Wolcott wears a depressed expression as he sits with Cy, having a drink. They are preparing to make the Manuel deal. A big, sweaty, dirty guy comes into the bar. Seeing him, Cy tells Wolcott he "got the worst brother, Mose. As ugly as he is, that miserable disposition."
Cy turns on the charm and greets Mose, who, in response, says, "Fuck you, Tolliver, your crooked games and your watered-down liquor." Awesome.
Wolcott sees his opening and cheerily stands to introduce himself, extending a hand. Mose ignores this and tells him to state his business. Wolcott praises his "admirable rigor in manner," and asks him to sit. "Do I guess rightly, sir," Wolcott asks, "that you and your brother do not deal happily with groups of men?" Mose: "Nor each other." Wolcott nods, saying that despite this, the brothers have made a huge gold find and are doing very well in its development. Mose tells him again to state his business. Wolcott says it's just that further development is going to require the brothers to depend on other groups of men in a way that they are not suited, or not willing, to deal with. "Thieving bastard Cornishmen, you mean?" Mose says. "Highgraders, every one of them!" Wolcott nods and says that his company has figured out how to deal with highgrading and other forms of theft by employees.
"You ain't learned no effective method when it's my brother goin' against you," Mose says. Wolcott: "Against us in what sense?" Mose: "In all FIVE fucking senses!" Wolcott says this is more reason the brothers might consider severing connection, or taking separate paths. "I'm sittin' here, ain't I?" Mose snarks. Wolcott lays out the deal. The Hearst interest would like to buy both portions of the claim. "I presume," Wolcott says, "your brother has stays and encumbrances on your right to separate sale?" Mose: "He's encumbered every fucking breath I've ever fucking taken." Wolcott explains that the offer is $200,000 for the claim, and asks if it would expedite matters if he made the case to Mose's brother. The big man declines this, however, saying he'll make the case. As he leaves, Wolcott reminds him that the patience of the Hearst group is not inexhaustible. Mose gets mad, asking, "Did I say I fucking thought that?" Now Wolcott is all submissive, saying it was the opposite of his intent to offend. Hee. Dillahunt is a freaking genius. So professional and ingratiating on one hand, crazy psycho on the other. He's just like Martha Stewart, in that sense.
In her room at the hotel, Mrs. Garret is getting pissy. She's put her hair up in the Imperial Bun again, and is looking out the window as if to find someone whom she can squash under her frosty control. Slinging the curtains around, she makes a silent decision and stomps from the room without a word, leaving poor Sophia looking sad in her corner. CORNER.
Mrs. G goes to Room 8, forcefully knocking on the door. It is opened by none other than Miss Isringhausen, who takes only a few seconds to look surprised. "Why do you linger?" Mrs. G asks, cutting to the chase. "The stages are frequent, and you're past your stated purpose. Have you another?" Why do the ladies on this show have to be so damn passive-aggressive? Just say it, biatch! Why bust out the feminine wiles when we all know the score?
Miss Iz plays along, dropping back into her innocent mode. "Please, Mrs. Garret," she says, "do come in." Once the door is closed, however, the gloves are off. Miss Iz asks if Mrs. G believes she does have another purpose. "My beliefs about you have to do with your soul, which I feel is cold and ungenerous, unless you are a counterfeit," Mrs. G says. "And if you are a counterfeit, the deception comes so naturally I'd credit its source in such a soul." Miss Iz is loving it, and so am I. "Who can you think I am, Mrs. Garret?" she asks, all wide-eyed. "I, a poor working girl." (Excellent. Now this is a cat-fight I can get behind, see? Because it ain't about no man. Just two women about to handle their business.)
Mrs. G says Miss Iz is no such thing, and Miss Iz moves in for the KILL, baby! "I hope your high wroth, ma'am, don't bespeak some affair gone amiss," she says, snakily moving forward. "I hope to Christ not involving Mr. Bullock." Oh, yes, she did.
Sucking in the breath of the righteous, Mrs. G rears back to slap the Iz, but gets shut down pretty quick when the other woman grabs and holds her wrist. "Even under such duress," Miss Iz says, right up in her face, "you oughtn't presume to strike me." Mrs. Garret tries to pull away from her, but Miss Iz won't allow it. She asks again for whom Mrs. G mistakes her. "I mistake you for no one, Miss Isringhausen," Mrs. G whispers, "and I know you for a fact." Miss Iz smirks. "All right, Mrs. Garret," she says, "you've had your fit of temper; get the fuck back to your room." Walking to the door, Miss Iz gives her one last look before opening it and holding it for her to leave. Mrs. G gets in a huff and kind of stomps out, but Miss Iz can barely conceal her unspoken "whatev."
Outside, the whole camp has come to watch Tom Nuttall's inaugural bone-shaking ride down the thoroughfare. The people of Deadwood are positively giddy with excitement. In the crowd, we see Charlie smiling and chatting with someone, and Martha and William Bullock finding a good spot to watch the action. Sol and Trixie run out of the hardware store to see what's up, just as Richardson runs back inside the Grand Central to get permission from E.B. to watch the event. Richardson asks the Irish guy behind the desk how E.B. is doing with his toothache. The tragically accented clerk tells Richardson he ought not to care about E.B.'s toothache, and should be hoping "his nibs" will be sleeping so they can both sneak out and watch the ride. Richardson can't have that, though, afflicted as he is with Stockholm Syndrome, so he goes to wake up E.B., who is in his office, allegedly sleeping off the toothache.
Actually, E.B.'s in a little trouble. He's stuffed his tooth with a cloth packed with cloves and has fallen asleep and is choking on it. Richardson comes in and sees him choking and tries to pull out the object. E.B. sits up and spits something out, confused, and Richardson pours a jug of water over his head, compounding the already crazy situation. E.B., of course, becomes enraged, despite having his life saved, and gives Richardson a stomp for his trouble. Richardson asks for permission, finally, to go see the bike ride, and E.B. sends him out, saying he doesn't care if he goes out to watch the earth yield up its dead, so long as it's not near him.
At the Gem, we see Dan step to Al's office door and listen intently to Al speaking inside. He grimaces and knocks, telling Al when he goes in that he apologizes if he's overstepping his bounds. It's just that...Dan hears Al speaking in his office sometimes when he knows there's no one in there with him. Al looks serious. "You have not yet reached the age, Dan, have you," he says, "where you're moved to utterance of thoughts properly kept silent." Dan says he's been known to mutter. But no, Al says he's not talking about the odd mutter. Rather the "habitual fucking vocalizing of thoughts best kept to yourself." Dan looks very worried, now, but it only gets worse. "I will confide, further," Al says. "Lately...I talk to this package." The uneasy smile on Dan's face as they both look to the HitB package paints a million words. Al explains that the package contains the Indian head, causing Dan to spring up from his chair. Pausing only for a moment, he swiftly replaces his hat and heads for the door, saying, "Well, anyways, it's the late shift..."
Before he can go, Al asks if he subscribes one way or the other to Nuttall's ride. "Naw," Dan answers, "I don't see him makin' it, but I don't want to root again' him...the Indian got an opinion?" Al looks stern at this, and Dan leaves while he still can. Don't talk about the HitB, Dan. It's the first rule of keeping a head in a box.
Al steps out on the balcony, bringing the HitB along, to see what's going on. "Don't the decapitated deserve recreation, chief," he asks, "as much, if not more so, than those of us yet not dismembered?" With this, he cuts the package open, I guess so the chief can, uh, get a better view? He gets a look at the HitB, and declares the chief uglier than before, then realizes something's about to happen in the street, and leaves the chief at that end of the balcony, telling him he'll have to "suffer the low vantage, it's better for my standard in the camp."
Below, Doc is giddily holding Nuttall's bike upright while he gets ready. A man approaches Nuttall as he makes his preparations, and apparently tries to encourage him to take a fall on behalf of those betting against him. He is resolute in his refusal. "That is a lay-down you propose," Nuttall shouts, striking the would-be cheater. "Corruption won't never breathe stinky on MY bicycle!"
Above, Al tells the chief: "Sent many of your friends to the happy huntin' ground. Formidable, Tom was, and no more fool now than time shows us all."
Merrick is getting his camera gear in order, and tries to explain it to Blazanov. Down the road in what is, I think, Nuttall's empty bar, the Manuel brothers are meeting to talk over the Hearst offer on their claim. Mose wants to sell, saying that if they don't, they're just going to fuck it up. "Speak for yourself," his brother answers.
Nuttall wheels his bike down to the starting line and mounts at the ready.
Back in the bar, Mose tells his brother, "Speaking for myself, if we don't sell, you're going to fuck it up." His brother, with his teeth jutting every which way but loose, tells him again to "speak for yourself." This time, Mose answers with one round from his gun, right into his brother's chest, in conjunction with the shot fired to send Nuttall off down the thoroughfare.
And what a ride it is -- Deadwood takes a break from beating, cheating, whoring, and killing each other to watch Nuttall's triumph. Al raises a fist on his balcony, shouting, "Go on, my son!" as people down below smile and laugh. Even Bullock smiles as everyone celebrates. "He made it, chief," Al tells the HitB, while the whole camp whoops it up.
In the midst of this folderol, Mose approaches Wolcott, saying his brother has had an accident. Wolcott asks what condition his brother is in, now. "Fatal," Mose answers. "Dead. Fatal gunshot." Wolcott considers this. "So...an accident. Handling his weapon...a self-inflicted wound." It's not a question. Yeah, yeah, Mose nods. "Fucking stupid, showing off when he's been fuckin' drinkin'." Wolcott asks if there are other kin, and Mose says no. Wolcott asks if he then accepts the Hearst offer, as his brother's sole heir. "Two hundred thousand?" Mose asks. "Cash upon execution," Wolcott answers, all business. Walking away, Mose tells him that "we already executed."
Down at the Chez Amie, Joanie sits in silence, alone. She's been sitting there all night, I guess, waiting. From outside, we hear Jane yelling out an introduction, saying she's coming in. She enters, saying she's not there for any "funny business," but that she and Joanie have a "pain-in-the-balls mutual acquaintance, Charlie Fucking Utter." Joanie says hello, and asks Jane if she'd like a drink. "YES," Jane says, stumbling a little, "but my opening position, is no." Joanie stands and says she's having a drink, and Jane says she'll probably join her, directly. Joanie goes to the bar, and Jane tells her that Charlie said she lost her friends. "Yes," Joanie answers, in a dead voice. Jane says she's guessing it wasn't the plague. Joanie says no, it wasn't. "Fuckin' violence probably," Jane says, grimacing from what is probably alcohol poisoning. Continuing with the small talk, she tells Joanie she worked a plague tent last year. Joanie nods, saying she'd heard people talk about Jane's good work. "Some left the tent upright," Jane says. "Maybe I will have a fuckin' drink," she goes on, "just for sociability's sake, and 'cause I'm a fuckin' drunk."
Joanie asks which is Jane's preference, and after joking that she'll take anything that ain't been previously swallowed, she asks for bourbon, if Joanie's got it. Joanie picks up the bottle of Basil Hayden they'd pulled out for Wolcott, saying she has bourbon from Kentucky. "I should certainly fuckin' hope so," Jane says.
Taking the drink, Jane asks if Joanie's friends were murdered. Joanie tells her it's probably best that they don't talk about it. "If we held to that rule, we'd be mute like monks months at a fuckin' time." Joanie breaks down a little, telling her that yes, three of her friends were murdered, and others were shooed from camp so they wouldn't be. "I heard of a beating Charlie Utter dispensed some cocksucker yesterday," Jane says, "I wonder if that's connected." Joanie tries to skirt it, but finally says yes, it was. Jane asks if this unnamed cocksucker poses further danger to Joanie, and wonders if that's why she's sitting here in alone in the dark. "Does sitting count as waiting?" Joanie asks. Jane smiles. "Oh...I'll say that's an attitude fit for darkness," she says, and prepares to take her leave. She doesn't know what else to say to Joanie, who seems so determined to get herself killed. They tell each other it was nice to have met, and Jane heads out. Joanie asks if she doesn't want to take her drink, and Jane laughs. "I guess I'll leave it," she says. "Refined spirits'll sometimes convulse me."
Back at the Grand Central, Mrs. G is opening her door to yet another visitor. It's Ellsworth, who says he was hoping for a word. "As many as you'd like," Mrs. G says, smiling. Now, as much as I get mad at Mrs. Garret in scenes with just about everyone else, I love it when she talks to Ellsworth. They're friends, and she likes him, and his chivalry and her manners set each other off with kindness. She's been bitchy to him, in the past, sure, but that was all Clench-related, when she was beside herself.
Mrs. G closes the bedroom door where Sophia is taking a nap (in her CORNER), and sits to face Ellsworth, who has positioned himself on a tiny stool, hat in hand. "The other morning," he says, "you was indisposed." She tells him she regrets that he had to witness that. "I had a wife," he goes on, "took by typhus...and our baby girl." She shows genuine sympathy at this news, and he thanks her. "Anyways," he says, he's acquainted with the whole morning sickness thing, and has figured out that she's pregnant. She nods, not trying to deny it. "And, I'd say," he continues, "not claiming credentials for raising a family, as my time with them was brief...but I'd hope it'd testify to willingness, as a candidate for marriage, and so forth. Offering myself."
Mrs. Garret is a bit taken aback, and quite moved, as Ellsworth takes a knee, "completin' the sorry presentation."
She thanks him, sincerely, for his proposal, saying she's deeply grateful. She asks for a brief interval before giving her answer. I love Molly Parker right here, way more than I have ever loved her before. "As long as you like," he jokes, struggling to rise. "It'll give me time to get up." Nervously, but very sweetly, she tells him she'll need a little longer than that, as well as some solitude. He says of course, and turns to go, but she grabs his arm to thank him again. They stand there looking at each other for a moment before he says "yes, ma'am," and heads out, leaving her in stunned silence.
In contrast to this sweet scene, things ain't going so well over at the Bullock residence. He is stoking the fire (not like that!) when Martha walks in. They stand there awkwardly for a minute before she starts her roundabout speech. The house that he's built, she says, is a testament to his care for her and William. Also, "the fostering affection, and guidance, you show my son to shape him into a man, will only deepen my gratitude to you." See, everything seems just hunky dory, right? Except, oh...
"As for myself," she goes on, "no further demonstrations are necessary...as...other duties claim your attentions."
Bullock, of course, looks completely clenched in surprise and concern. "None, such as you conceive, since your arrival," he tells her. "Nor will they, again, whatever the state of our relations."
Eeeeesh...wrong answer, dude. Of course, not that there's a correct answer when dealing with a woman on an issue such as this. Halfway up the stairs, she turns to back, long enough to finish him off. "Do not," she hisses, "sacrifice further on my account, Mr. Bullock. I reject the offering. I repudiate it. I find it poisonous."
And who can blame her? It's hard, though, to see Bullock frozen in such a messed-up state. He kind of stands there, clenching sadly, hands in pockets.
Al takes the secret passage over to Merrick's office, finding it, in Merrick's words, "tidied and reconstituted." Al's delivering a...press release, seriously, to Merrick containing all sorts of rumor and conjecture (he has come up with himself) about the possibility of Montana being interested in annexing Deadwood. While Merrick peruses his document, Al eyes the telegraph machine rather suspiciously. Merrick reads aloud from Al's statement: "'Sheriff Bullock would not confirm having met with representatives from the Montana territory to discuss their offer of annexation.' Is this true, Al?" Al: "Did he fuckin' confirm it to you?" Merrick says he hasn't spoken to Bullock. "So," Al concludes, "then I guess it ain't confirmed." Clever use of the fourth estate, Al. You're fully qualified to be a Hollywood publicist.
In other news, Al's suddenly more concerned that this is the first he's hearing of this telegraph machine. He dresses Merrick down rather harshly for not informing him of it sooner. "I wasn't aware that you were owed official notification," Merrick tells him. Is Merrick new in town, or what? You'd think he'd be aware.
Al is super-annoyed. "Merrick," he says, sighing. "You and me are allies, marching into battle together, and aren't smart-ass replies between allies a waste of fucking time?" Merrick doesn't get it: "Allies... marching?" Al says, yeah, "allies, marching! Is exactly fucking right! And this operator hitting camp is big." The main dereliction of duty, Al says, falls to Farnum, who is charged with reporting any new arrival to camp, but he's mad at Merrick as well, for not sharing the info.
Merrick is still trying to wrap his mind around Al's marching analogy when Blazanov comes in with supplies. Al's eyebrows shoot to the ceiling and Merrick introduces the two men. Blazanov is all politeness, saying how do you do. Al looks at him, warily, saying he has "some pronounced fuckin' accent." Al starts his game immediately, telling Blazanov he's sure people are already trying to bribe him to find out the secrets in the camp. "No, no," Blazanov says about the bribe. "I'm not allowed..." Al: "No! None of us are. We are every one strictly forbade, that's the fuckin' beauty of it all, huh?"
Poor, poor Blazanov is not following. He says he thinks maybe he doesn't have good enough English to talk to Al. Al, however, says he has the perfect amount, and offers the free services of his whores, day or night, to the newly-arrived Russian. They all laugh, nervously, and Merrick is mortified. He tries to brush off Al's colorful manner as being an American "tall-tales" tradition, and Al makes his exit, saying that Blazanov is to participate in newly-formed tradition of telegraph operators fucking for free at the Gem. "By all means," he says in closing, "welcome to America."
Up at the cemetery, Charlie is at his wit's end. He's gone up to talk to Bill. "Jane ain't with me, 'cause she's a drunken fuckin' mess," he says, "and I don't know what to do about it." Charlie says he knows Bill wants Jane looked out for, and he's doing his best, but that it's not going so well. Charlie goes on to tell Bill that the last letter he wrote to his wife has come into Charlie's possession. "And knowing what we know about our fucked-up postal system," he says, "I ain't committing it to the fucking mails." He says when he finds where Bill's wife has settled, he'll get it to her. "As far as Jane," he says in closing, Bill never saw her as drunk as she is now. Charlie thinks she's trying to slowly kill herself. "I don't know what the fuck to do. But, you know...I'll keep trying." God. When they're handing out awards for this show, they mustn't pass up Dayton Callie, who plays Charlie. He kills me with how truthfully he portrays a guy just trying to make it through life by doing the right thing, despite all the ridiculous people he has to deal with and care for.
Down in Chink's Alley, Doc is looking into one of the cages containing what may be a dead Chinese prostitute. She may also be heavily doped. I can't think which is the worse fate, and Doc is nearly dying with rage. A little ways on, Wolcott is showing Mose Manuel where his brother's remains are being housed -- in some sort of shack, guarded by Mr. Lee. Mose is looking a little overwhelmed, but doesn't have time to say anything before Doc descends on Wolcott, asking if he speaks Chinese. Wolcott, in his polite way, says he does not. Doc is spitting mad about the conditions of these women. "However you accomplish communication with that sonofabitch," he says, gesturing at Lee, "then the more DISGRACE to your soul." Wolcott swallows, surprised, as Doc stomps away. Wolcott shakes his head. It's been a long day. He turns back to Mose, asking if they can finally complete their transaction.
"It fuckin' happens," Mose says, full of nerves, "the fuckin' gun he was cleaning when he shot himself was mine." Wolcott nods in a patronizing way, but Mose goes on raving, wondering if that will be an issue if someone has a mind to recover the bullet. Wolcott finally raises his voice. "I expect not, Mr. Manuel," he yells, "or that, other than yours, any such mind is in the camp. And, I suggest you think of other things, like the money that Mr. Tolliver is waiting to present you at the Bella Union." Mose is kind of beside himself now. "That easy," he says, as if mourning the brother he himself killed, "to forget a fucking brother?!" Wolcott tells him that "money has properties in this regard, though no remedy is discovered yet, sovereign against sentimental remorse." He turns as he says it, coming face to face with one of the Chinese girls in her cage, and screams at her to close her eyes. She doesn't.
We return now to the Chez Amie, now cast in darkness. Joanie is still sitting there, alone, when she hears a knock at the door. She calls out that it's open, and Wolcott walks in. She knows it's him, without even turning around. "Do what you came to," she says, quietly. "I don't know what I came to do," he answers. She asks if it's easier for him to say that. Wolcott: "The other nights, I've known."
Back at Utter's building, Jane is staggering down the outside stairs with her shotgun. "Supposed to look out for that madam," she slurs, "fuckin' asleep at the switch."
That madam's looking out for herself, though. She stands and turns to face Wolcott, who lowers his eyes. They are both breathing heavy, and it seems Joanie is quite drunk. Wolcott sees the Basil Hayden on the table to her chair. "You were waiting for me," he says. "No," she answers, "my friend Jane left that," and without further ado, picks up the bottle and SMACKS him in the side of the head. Rock on, Joanie. Rock on.
She runs away, yelling for him to leave her alone, and locks herself in one of the rooms, announcing she has a gun with her, and for him to "get the fuck out, and lock the front fuckin' door."
Amazingly, he does get the fuck out. Staggering through the street, wiping at his wounded face, he encounters Jane coming the other way with her gun drawn, drunk as hell. "You the fuckin' cocksucker?" she asks, fearful but strong. "I may well be," he tells her, resigned. Jane asks if he just killed that girl in the Chez Amie, and he says he didn't, that Joanie is fine. Jane's suspicious, and asks that if that's so, then whose blood is on his face. "My own," Wolcott sighs, presenting her with his calling card and introducing himself. "If you find me untrue in any particular, I stay at the Grand Central Hotel." Jane takes the card, but gives him one final test to see if he's lying. "Who runs that joint?" she asks, and he hilariously answers that it is run by "a grotesque, named Farnum." Jane is satisfied. "You ain't lied so far," she mutters, and pulls herself together to go check on her new friend.
And, speaking of friends, one of mine here at TWoP will be filling in for me week as I travel for work. A new girl, Drunken Bee. Y'all be sweet to her, or it'll be a boot to your neck. She's got my proxy.