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The camp sets up a sad, sad vigil, everyone waiting to see what will happen to young William Bullock who has been trampled by a horse. Meanwhile, Al does some hooking and baiting, using Adams as a partner, against the hated Commissioner Jarry, who has returned to respond to the Montana rumors recently reported in the Deadwood Pioneer. Miss Iz makes her exit from Deadwood, we can only assume to one day again grace us with her bad-ass-ness. Mose Manuel, despite being shot in the chest, has not died. Doc sets up to try and remove the bullet from the fat around his heart. Hostetler and the NG take off into the woods to protect themselves from potential angry mobs -- probably a smart move, as ol' Steve is back in town, N-wording it up. In Doc's shed, Mr. and Mrs. Bullock sit at the bedside of their son, talking and trying to soothe him. He takes his last breaths as they watch. Want more? The full recap starts right below!
Hostetler and the N*gger General are nervous. As the fabulous Drunken Bee told you last week, the horse they were trying to geld trampled William Bullock in the street and the two men are pacing the livery, looking out the front door for retribution, sure to come.Actually, it seems Hostetler is not quite understanding the full magnitude of the situation. Apparently, he thinks it was just dang ol' Steve the horse took down. "Horse run trash over like that by accident," he says, "still ain't a white man in the world gon' stand up against ropin' us up, now is there?" NG: "John Brown would've."
Still looking into the thoroughfare, the NG asks Hostetler if the sheriff has a kid. Hostetler says yes, and a wife. He knows because he sold Bullock the land on which the sheriff built his family's house. Coming up beside the NG, he sees the full and dreadful scene. Bullock is carrying William in his arms, yelling for his wife, who comes running, skirts in hands. Hostetler clues in: "Jesus!"
Everyone in the street is up-SET. Sol comes running as well, and we see Sophia turn to bury her face in Mrs. G's beautiful dress. Trixie steps out of the hardware store, alarmed, and Cy yells at his henchmen, extra hatefully, to drag Mose Manual down to the Chez Amie.
Hostetler and the NG lament the situation. The only violence they meant, Hostetler says, "was to that stallion's prick," and now they're in this horrible situation. Evidently, however, no one has fully figured out as of yet that the horse came from the two of them. This is indicated when Calamity Jane walks up to the livery door looking to get her horse turned out. Hostetler tells her he's closed, but that he'll note down her request (on his chalkboard, no doubt). Jane hollers again: "Short N*gger General in there?" Hostetler lies and says no, trying to get rid of her. "How about that stud he brought into camp," she asks further, "with his cock hanging past his hocks?" (If you're at a fraternity party, talking about a guy rather than a horse, this can easily be modified to "that stud with his cock hanging to his socks." …What?)
Hostetler tells her that said stud ain't there, either. She leaves, sarcastically congratulating Hostetler for being closed, and the NG shrugs. "There goes no one associatin' me with that horse." Hostetler gets mad, now. He is seeing the future, he thinks, and decides he's not going to beg anybody for mercy. "I hadn't ought to have to do that," he says, grimacing. The NG translates this complicated English fast enough to stop Hostetler from grabbing his shotgun. They wrestle for it, and Hostetler threatens to break the NG's arm if he doesn't give him the gun. He'd rather go out his own way, he says, by choice. The NG convinces him to let it "ride for six hours," to see what shakes down. "You won't have to beg me once," he says. "If you still want to do it, I'll shoot you." (Cue music: "That's What Friends are For.") Hostetler says if it comes to it, he'll do it himself.
At the Gem, Johnny has interrupted Al's meeting with Miss Isringhausen to give a report on the scene to Al, while Trixie paces, hysterical. "He's definitely alive," Johnny says. "'Cause bein' lifted into the cabin, he give a moan out and blood come out of his mouth." Trixie is losing it. She complains that she already told Al all this. "As of 15 minutes ago," Al says. Trixie sarcastically orders Johnny, between sobs, to run back to Doc's cabin yet again. "Maybe since you saw him, he's changed," she cries. "Or the half of his chest stove-in has healed. Or his poor broken head!" Al, sitting ramrod straight, tells her to shut up, or he'll throw her out. He doesn't have time for all this mourning and gnashing. He's got Miss Iz to deal with, and now the situation's obviously complicated -- he won't be able to get Bullock to escort her to safety now.
He tries moving forward with his plan. "Sign these documents," he says, indicating the affidavits to which she formerly agreed, "and leave unharmed." Miss Iz is none too ready to sign, however. She says she doesn't trust the situation. Uh, here we see that the kinder, gentler Al Swearengen we had come to know and love following his gleets experience...is no longer in play. In other words, what little patience he's seemed to have lately is now lost, just as if it had been thrown to Wu's pigs. And it's oh, so nice to have him back. "That applies to you most, sittin' in that fuckin' chair, distractin' my fuckin' thinking," he tells her, without further ado. "If I have to come over there, I'll cut your fuckin' throat for you, pen yet put to paper, or not." Whoa.
You gotta hand it to Iz, though, because she handles it fairly well. I mean, she probably just wet her petticoats, but she's keeping her usual cool. Johnny and Trixie, still in the room, wait in silence while Al jerks a bottle of whiskey from his drawer and stomps out, calling Iz a "half-smart fuckin' c*nt." In the hall, Al finds Dan and tells him to bring Adams's "shadow" to see him. "Fuckin' Hawkeye," Dan says, most likely remembering the time he almost beat the little leprechaun to death.
Merrick walks up, shaking his head about the accident that has occurred with William, and Al belligerently asks the newspaperman what he wants. "The sheriff's tragic preoccupation is also inopportune," he reports. "Commissioner Jarry returns to Deadwood." Al asks him how he knows this, and Merrick goes into a roundabout speech about how he kind of, you know, accidentally, maybe, got a look at a telegram on Blasanov's desk -- addressed to Cy and Wolcott -- saying that Jarry would be on the coach. (I warm my hands with evil glee, thinking my chance to see the hated Jarry get stabbed is nigh.) Merrick goes on, philosophizing on the irony that having turned his newspaper "to partisan purpose," he then, within the day, "progressed to betraying, without regret, the sanctity of private communications." Oh, Merrick. What a tangled web you are now weaving. Al regards this soul-searching with an "ah, well," and interrupts to yell down to Dan. "Unless he's being of aid to Bullock," he says, "bring the Jew up here, too."
Merrick has continued, meanwhile, with his deep thoughts. He asks Al if he thinks it was his rumor-mongering newspaper story that prompted Jarry's return. "Yes," Al says, impatiently. Merrick wonders if, wishing to pre-empt Montana and Wyoming, Jarry will push harder with Yankton's proposal to annex Deadwood into Dakota. "And to sweeten the deal, we'll strike," Al says. "These interests we've fabricated must be given face." Squinting, Merrick looks into the distance, dramatically foretelling that "thus, the uncharted journey continues." Al's got no patience for the drama at all today. "Merrick, please," he says, exasperated. "As we'll be more often in each other's company, when given to utterance of that type, consider drinking."
In the doorway of the Grand Central, E.B. is stewing. "They congregate outside Cochran's cabin," he says to himself, all slithery. "They've taken the child there. Well, I wish him well." Huh. This week, E.B. is the Greek chorus. Seeing Dan charging across the lane toward him, he recoils back behind the desk, muttering in a panic. Forgoing pleasantries, Dan barrels in, asking for Hawkeye. "I see, Dan," E.B. says. "With the world off its axis, I'm no more to you than a room clerk."
Dan's got about half the patience of Al, today. He asks if Hawkeye's there "or fuckin' not." E.B. says no, not for three days, but can't help getting all snippity about it, scornfully asking Dan if he'd like him to shine his shoes and do his laundry. Dan ain't having it. He grabs E.B. by his collar and pulls him half over the desk, asking if E.B. fucking understands that he needs to see Hawkeye. "Yes," E.B. croaks, and, after Dan leaves, says, "A broken heart does not impair hearing." Aw. E.B.'s feeling left out again, I guess.
Over at the Bella Union, Wolcott and Cy are having a drink. (Before I go on, I must tell you that almost every time I type out the name "Wolcott," I accidentally type "Wolcoot," and somehow, even though I've done it hundreds of times now, it never stops being funny.) Cy asks Jack the bartender, who has just come in, if Leon and Con Stapleton have managed to get "that fat fuck" over to Joanie's yet, and smartassedly wonders if "her ladyship" took him in. Jack reports, with extreme stiffness, that Leon and Con have not made it up the street yet. Cy remarks that the Bella Union needs a better sled. Hee. But no, Jack says, it's not just the sled in this case, apparently Con's pulled a rupture in his groin trying to haul the corpulent Manual through the thoroughfare. Cy can't take it. "You get back to that fuckin' circus act, and tell him to get Mose Manual to Joanie's, or a rupture won't be a tickle compared to the pain I'll throw at him later."
Jarry picks this exact moment to arrive. "Commissionerrrrrrrr," Cy says in exasperation, sounding like a cartoon pirate. Jarry cuts to the chase, asking where he'll find the sheriff. Cy tells him that the Bullock's boy has had an accident and that the sheriff is with him at the Doc's. "Where is the Doc's?" Jarry asks, super-rude. "Oh, don't be a fool," Wolcott groans, and rightly so. Jarry, dude -- when a multiple murderer who can't have sex without his pants on is casting aspersions on your ability to act right, you need to dial it down a FEW notches. Better yet, though...keep it up, asshole, and maybe Wolcott will have to razor you, causing Christmas to come early at my house.
Jarry ain't clear on the matter, though. He drones on, saying that the Yankton deal takes precedent over the sheriff's privacy and that Wolcott's employers would no doubt feel the same way. Cy tells Jarry that going to Bullock now will only earn him a pistol-whipping. "These injuries mortal," Jarry says, "to earn such commendable deference." HUH? Now, come on, people! Even I can barely find the...sentence in that sentence. I get it, though, when Cy says that "mortal's how I would be bettin'." Ah, Jarry says, realizing we're talking about mortal injuries. "Of course that casts a different light," he says, with all the sincerity of a person with no soul, "very sad for the sheriff and his son." Uh, yeah. Wolcott and Cy are drinking shot after shot in what seems to be actual sadness. Jarry continues to be JARRING, asking if "that paper man can be made sensible."
Cy rolls his eyes in frustration. "The article's a plant from Swearengen," he tells him, "if that's what you want to ask Merrick." Jarry says that's the beginning of what he'd want to ask. "Don't take much, does it, Commissioner, to get your balls tucked up?" Cy snarks. Jarry: "They are very sensitive to changes in weather. You feel one coming on?" On that line, he makes his exit, leaving Wolcott to comment, "I am a sinner, who does not expect forgiveness...but, I am not a government official!" You said it, Wolcoot.
In the thoroughfare, we see Dan stomping up and down, still looking for Hawkeye, when he spots his other prey, Sol, down by Doc's. He runs up to Sol, announcing pretty forcefully that Al wants to see him. "When I can," Sol says. Dan doesn't like this. He insists that Sol come with him right now, but Sol gets mad and says no, keeping his eyes on the door of Doc's cabin. Dan's out of patience. "I'll lift you up in the air and carry you before the whole goddamn camp like a fuckin' turtle with its legs wigglin'." Hmm. Sol considers this, still trying to look tough, but he turns pretty quick and strides toward the Gem. Halfway there, Dan sees Adams riding into camp. He runs over to stop him, asking Adams for the whereabouts of Hawkeye. Adams kind of laughs and says, "I don't know...what'd he do?" Dan just says that Al's looking for the guy. "For what?" Adams asks, still jovial. Have I mentioned that Dan's not having any of the backchat this afternoon? "You're about to take a goddamn beatin' for every fuckin' time I've been asked 'what for' already today," he yells. Adams is skilled at handling his tenuous friendship with Dan and does not further exacerbate his rage, instead simply asking if there's any chance Al's looking for Hawkeye "to ask him where I was." Huh. Dan muses silently on that while Adams dismounts, announcing, "I've got to take a shit." Nervously, Dan suggests that he put that off for the time being. Adams says it can't be put off, and besides, it's not the kind that takes very long. Dan nods, but says he isn't going back to the Gem without Adams. "Fine, fuck it," Adams says, heading into the hotel, "just keep your distance."
Meanwhile, Jane, seemingly sober, is wandering around, searching for something. To no one in particular, she says, "Just because I'm looking for a bottle I might've misplaced during my drinking days, does not mean if I find a bottle, that I'm going to fuckin' drink it." Rounding a corner under some stairs, she is shocked to find Tom Nuttall, hiding alone and sobbing. "You know whose horse it was?" Tom asks. Jane gets quiet and asks him what he means, but Tom breaks down, and can't answer.
This part is rough now, y'all. I can't bring myself to muster up even the slightest fragrance of cynicism regarding little William Bullock all laid out on Doc's table with his mama hanging over him and his diddy standing there with tears in his eyes. I mean, it's kind of killing me. Doc, too, is a bit beside himself. Taking Bullock aside, he tells Bullock that the damage to William's brain and body will be fatal. Bullock, all stoic and moist-eyed, asks if it will be of some comfort to William to hear his mother's voice. "It might be," Doc says, after a pause. "His father's, too."
Martha is by the bedside, repeatedly wringing water through a rag, staring at her son. "Tell your wife," Doc whispers, "that it won't hurt him to put a cloth to his brow."
Back at the Gem, Jewel is preparing to go on a mission from Trixie, but needs some clarity on her orders. "Just stand there?" she asks. "No," Trixie snarks, "build yourself a fuckin' shrine." No, Jewel says, she just wants to know if she should knock and let Doc know she's standing "the fuck outside." I'm not sure why Trixie can't go, herself -- maybe it's too painful for her -- but she tells Jewel, yeah, to do that. As Jewel leaves, Sol comes in complaining that Al has summoned him and is now making him wait. "I suppose, then," Trixie suggests, "you should sit the fuck down." Sol's on a roll, though. "And I come, too," he says, "and find you like you never left this place to learn your numbers." Trixie paces back and forth asking if learning numbers from Sol gives him access to her whereabouts the rest of her fuckin' days. Sol hmphs, saying he's leaving, and that if Al wants him, he can come find him. Trixie suggests he just wait and find out what Al wants, and Sol asks why Trixie just doesn't tell him herself. She doesn't know, she says, and they get in this big bitch-off with Sol calling Trixie Al's lapdog and accusing her of coming to learn numbers for Al's gain. Trixie has the balls to act offended by that, and Sol finally backs down and says he'll have a drink. "Try the horse's piss," Trixie says, pouring. "It's on fuckin' special."
In the thoroughfare, Leon and Con are dragging Mose as best they can. I should say, Leon is dragging him, or trying to, while Con limps along beside, groaning and clutching his crotch. "I wish I could help you more," Con says to his comrade. "Been walkin' for two hours," Leon pants under the strain. "I'm startin' to think that place is a fuckin' mirage." Haaaaaa! Damn, Leon. You do need a better sled.
Sol is still waiting for Al in the main room of the Gem when Dan walks in with Adams, yelling, "He asked to see Hawkeye, first." Well, hell, Sol's not blind! He smarts off: "THIS is ADAMS!" and Dan just about snaps on him. "I know who the FUCK it is. Now shut the fuck up, and sit down." Sol seems like he's thinking about maybe bowing up on Dan, here, but he wisely just goes on and, you know, sits the fuck down.
Upstairs, Al is still meeting with Miss Iz. They are having a contest of the eyebrows, each accusing the other of being the sneakiest. Al wonders why Miss Iz would be so suspicious of him, since he had originally asked the sheriff to be present during all this document signing for her protection. She postulates that Al could have contrived the whole horse drama outside himself to guarantee she'd have to go it alone. Sheesh, Iz. Al can plot and maneuver with the best of them -- hell, he IS the best of them -- but I don't think even he could have pulled that off. However, now that she mentions it...Al makes a face like he's filing that idea away under "Nefarious Schemes Involving Stallions, Thoroughfare."
Adams enters during this brief moment of silence, and walks slowly over to stand with Al. "Have you come to murder me, Silas?" Iz asks, sickly-sweet. "I wouldn't turn down the chance," he tells her, and Al gives her yet another round of eyebrows as if to indicate even further how alone she is on this battlefield.
Iz is feeling the heat. She swallows hard and picks up the pen to sign the paper, looping down her signature. As she does so, Al hands Adams a document, which he looks at before glancing down at Iz's John Hancock. He shakes his head and sighs with disappointment. "Even swayed at last by my manly composure," Al says, "you sign in a false hand." Ah, the paper he handed to Adams was the register from the Grand Central, taken to compare her sig. Miss Iz suggests that this signature today is her true hand, and the one on the register is false. Crafty to the end, our girl. I hope she isn't crafting herself into the grave.
She and Adams stare each other down as she finishes the signing, and Al takes out a stack of bills, handing it across. "Wish I had five like you," he tells her, ever the smartass. She takes the money, stands, and leaves without a glance back, walking out of the Gem with beautiful posture. Please don't kill Miss Iz, Milch. I mean, I know you're going to do it, but let her go out guns blazing, or something. I'd like to see her stab somebody, even, if that could be arranged. Maybe that dude I hate that's always hanging out down at Nuttall's. Just a suggestion. I really do hate that guy, though.
Down at the Chez Amie, Joanie and Jane are kind of sitting around, talking about the accident, maybe trying to decide if there's something they should be doing about it. "Last thing they require at a child's sickbed," Jane says, "unlubricated drunk, sweatin' and vomitin'." Joanie says her particular issue is that she "ain't one for blood."
A knock is heard at the door, and Leon and Stapleton stagger in with the sled carrying Mose Manual.
Down at Nuttall's, Steve is getting hammered, blaming Hostetler and the NG for the horse getting loose and trampling William. Didn't Steve have a broken leg of some kind as a result of the accident? I thought I remembered that he was hurt -- worse than he appears to be hurt now. Apparently, it's just his back that's "torn up." Whatever, I can't concentrate on Steve, who delivers a stunning racist rant about the livery, because the guy I hate is jabbering on about presenting Martha with a white satin comforter for the coffin. Yes, I am sure white satin ABOUNDS in the Dirtiest Town on Earth. You can buy it down at Bed, No Baths & Beyond. This whole scene was to determine two things: the NG and Hostetler left a sign on their door saying they'd be back in three hours; and Tom returns to his place, looking much worse for wear. He sees the boneshaker leaning against the wall, and tells the bartender to get rid of it. He sits down and starts drinking, and it's such a sad comparison to the overly jovial, jocular Tom of the last few episodes, a man in love with his bike, that his understated grief is quite moving.
The guy I hate wanders over and gives Tom his condolences, on behalf of the whole camp, which is...nice, I guess, and Steve who is becoming exponentially more drunk by the nanosecond, makes a declaration that Tom bears no more responsibility than he does himself, "an innocent, fuckin' helpful bystander," and again places the blame squarely on Hostetler and the NG. Tom just puts his head down and says no more.
Back in the Gem, Sol has finally been called into his meeting. It's an impenetrable scene which I will now summarize for you, for which you should be damn grateful. Al starts off by insulting Sol's Jewishness again, a tactic he has employed in the past. This time, Sol's not so nice about it. "I don't find those funny," he says. Al apologizes, with all the fake sincerity he can muster. "If you want my help, don't insult me," Sol reiterates. "Oh, Jesus Christ," Al smarts, rolling his eyes, "show me the secret grip that proves my regret and let's be about our fuckin' business." The camera cuts to Adams, still in the room, giving Al a warning look. They need Sol's help.
In fact, Al wants Sol to "salt" Adams with enough information about the Montana officials he knows to allow Adams to convincingly shine Jarry on about Montana's extreme interest -- their "stiff-pricked" interest -- in offering an annexation bid on the camp. Sol considers it, all serious, finally standing and toughly announcing that "yeah, I'll school him." Hee. Sol as a tough guy is not something I think I'll be able to get used to.
Back the hotel, Trixie is paying on call on Mrs. Garret. She stomps in the room and greets Sophia, who is knitting at the foot of the bed (not the CORNER), with a pinch to the nose and a smile. Mrs. G, fretting and wringing a hankie, asks Trixie if William's condition has changed. That ain't what Trixie came to talk about, Mrs. G. Without answering, Trixie asks, "As to Ellsworth's proposal of marriage, which way to do you incline?"
Mrs. G tries to get smart: "Do you take us in from on high then, Trixie, and are you privy to all our secrets?" But Trixie has no time for that. She cuts her off, repeating the question. Mrs. Garret is alarmed at her audacity, but nonetheless chooses to answer, despite the fact that, hey, you know, this is...none of Trixie's business. Anyway, she starts out, "The prospect of Ellsworth in the role of father delights me..." Trixie interrupts. "If it's fucking him gives you pause," she says, "he'd never make you."
Mrs. Garret takes a tone. "What gives me pause, having had the experience," she says, "is the prospect of marriage without love." Again, Trixie lays down the smack. "Yeah, but when it came to cases," she says, squinting, "you took that fuckin' leap. Ellsworth waits on your answer, whatever you await before givin' it."
In Al's office, Sol is laying out the lesson. He tells Adams everything he can about Montana and the local bigwigs, Clark and Daly. As a matter of fact, after a long minute or two of being peppered with questions from Adams and Al, he reveals that he once ate with Clark in a restaurant in Helena. DING! This is the kind of info Al wanted from the beginning. "Don't tell me we might be fuckin' getting' somewhere," Al snarks, and I nod in approval, because frankly, the Montana/Dakota/Wherevah merry-go-round and accompanying lugubrious dialogue is starting to make me nauseous! Honestly.
At the Chez Amie, Doc has arrived to see what can be done with Mose. First, however, he gets a hold of Con Stapleton's manhood and jerks it around to deal with his hernia. Stapleton cries out in pain, begging someone to murder him. What sort of tornado would have to hit Deadwood to knock Con's hat off? Riddle me that. Have we ever seen him without it? Done with Con, Doc tends to Mose, who is still twitching in a big, bloody heap on the sled. Jane comes in with three pitchforks and a plan. She suggests they slide the forks under Mose to leverage him onto the sofa. "Why not just run at him from across the room," Doc says, putting on his hat to leave, "and stab him with all three pitchforks." Now that's some alternative medicine, right there.
Jane asks if he's going to cut on Mose. Doc says no. He has other patients and he chooses not to undertake "a futile and exhaustive procedure." He figures the bullet in Mose's chest is lodged in fat too close to the heart. Before he can leave, Con cries out that he's "still in fuckin' discomfort!" Doc to the women: "Nurse him. He's herniated." Jane turns to Joanie and looks over at Con. "He's the cardsharp that told me about Bill," she sniffs. "I'd punch that cocksucker in the balls before I'd cup 'em for comfort." She goes over to Mose, saying "all right, slim" and pouring out some water to give to him. Meanwhile, Leon has sidled up to Joanie, thinking he's all smooth. "Hey, Joanie..." he starts. Without even looking at him, she turns him down. "No chance, Leon."
In Doc's cabin, Martha is flinching with every pitiful cough coming from her dying son. It's a rough picture, seeing the Bullocks all together like this, clenched in real sadness. Bullock tells his wife what Doc said about William maybe finding comfort in a cold cloth and his mother's voice, and Martha breaks down. If she'd only kept him in Michigan, she says, this never would've happened. I guess I expected Bullock to say something comforting like it's not her fault, it was an accident, but he says, "Yes." Nice move, there, Mother Teresa.
Martha says she wants to take William home, and Bullock doesn't get it. "Doc says it's better he's not moved," he tells her. Stoic, she says, "There's no better about it. Is there?" as William gives another death rattle. After a pause, she asks, "What does the doctor tell us to say?"
Jarry goes to the door of the Deadwood Pioneer and knocks, asking for a word with Merrick. The newspaperman closes the blind on him, telling him to go away, that they have nothing to discuss. Hidden in the telegraph office are Blasanov and Sol. I'm not sure why. Jarry stomps away, and Merrick says to his two hidden companions, "I hope that will achieve what the party adjoining us, intends." He's talking about Al, of course, who must have sent Sol over to hang with these two, because Blasanov now thanks Sol for being there.
In Al's office, a bit of a stage production is going on. A little good cop/bad cop starring Al and Adams, playing against Jarry. We know it's fake immediately, because Adams, in playing the bad cop, is sassing Al left and right, an action that would have gotten his throat slit in about 2.9 seconds were this conversation not being held just for Jarry's benefit. Every time Jarry says something, Al responds with courtesy. "I'm listening," Al says, all Dr. Phil-style, and Adams comes back with, "Well, then shame the fuck on you!" While I enjoy this scene very much, I sure wish we could have seen them strategizing it before Jarry got there. Like, "I'm gonna say something nice, and then YOU say something MEAN and I'll look at you like I'm mad, but I really won't be! It'll be so awesome!" Seemingly, Jarry falls for it. "Gentlemen, we are men of experience," he says, trying to placate. "Self-interest is immutable, but its dictates vary daily." Adams tells him he's talking like he takes it up the ass. "I do not, my friend Adams," Jarry answers, "take it up the ass." Brilliant.
Adams tells Jarry not to refer to him as a friend, and Jarry continues, saying that those who DO take it up the ass probably do so to advance their own interests. Huh. That's one way to think about it.
Al is still playing the suave cool guy, and suggests that Adams "calm the fuck down." Adams fires another round, getting all uppity and causing Al to give him a look like maybe he needs to take it down a peg, or seven, especially when Adams goes overboard and suggests that maybe Al takes it up the ass. Hey, now. Al takes a lot of things, and in a lot of places, but the only thing up his ass so far has been Dolly's thumb. As far as we know. Al gets out the whiskey, and demands that Adams tell Jarry what Bullock was having him do in Montana (which would be...nothing). Sweet. Al is the master of the flim-flam.
Doc outside his cabin, looking in to see Martha Bullock still hunched over her dying son, Bullock standing in the background. He decides not to go in and interrupt them, instead telling Jewel, who is at her Trixie-appointed post, that she's to come get him back at the Chez Amie if there's any change. "I'll be operatin' on a whale," he says.
Back in Al's office, Adams has apparently laid out his trumped-up story to Jarry about meeting with the Montana officials, at Bullock's request. Now, it seems, Jarry ain't buying it. Adams is enjoying his little acting assignment, and throws on a little sauce. "I sit here, right," he says to Al, "and he calls me a FUCKIN' liar?!" Jarry says that no one is calling him a liar (even though he totally is), it's just that the idea that this unnamed official would conduct his territory's business from the back of a restaurant -- "the Stonehouse!" Adams interjects -- with a bag over his head lacks credibility.
"I won't pretend it didn't strike me strange," Al agrees, giving a fake shrug. The details come out: allegedly, this bagged individual told Adams, in anonymity (the bag), that Montana wants to annex Deadwood and will pay $50,000 bounty for allegiance from the camp's key players. What is soon revealed, and what is the most incredible facet of this scene, is that it's not the whole awesome BAG thing that Jarry doesn't believe. NO! It seems he actually BELIEVES the story. His only concern is that the guy in the bag may have been Clark, the main Montana official, himself. The look on Al's face when he realizes this scheme is coming across is so beautiful, I wish I could somehow print it and frame it and hang it in my office.
Jarry wonders why a representative of Clark's, unknown to Adams, would bother to conceal himself. "Maybe he had open sores," Adams cracks. It had to be Clark, Jarry says, because he would have had the most to lose by being recognized. God, it's beautiful. He's played right into Al's hands, and it couldn't have gone more smoothly. Adams and Al look at each other and just try to contain their glee as the trap closes on Jarry. "If Deadwood could grant an interval before answering Montana's offer," Jarry says, "I will convey my impressions to Yankton, and learn whether they wish to counter." Al takes a swig, probably to keep from laughing, and says he has "no objection...though I speak only for myself." Yes, well, Al? Who else is there?
As Adams bites his tongue to keep from audibly whooping at their victory, Jarry tells Al he's being far too modest. Uh, sure.
Jarry pays his respects, finally, and leaves, and the two men left in the office are nearly beside themselves. "What just happened?" Adams asks his boss, in amazement. Al looks up with a Cheshire smile. "We knocked the cocksucker up," he says, "and soon he will find himself deliverin'." Adams: "The fifty?" Al: "Elections."
They toast and swig some whiskey. Lowering his glass, Adams wonders how William Bullock is doing. "Ain't my department," Al says, his face as inscrutable as a stone.
Somewhere out in the woods, Hostetler is bedding down by a campfire while the NG relieves himself a few yards away. "You could put yourself to more distance," Hostetler says. "I'm scared to go off in the dark," the NG tells him. "I can't piss when I'm scared."
This is just a good idea, in general. Last week, I was coming home on a plane from Minneapolis and the flight attendant announced that the light in the lavatory at the front of the cabin wasn't working, so it was now use at your own risk. My co-worker with whom I was traveling nodded sagely. "You know," he said, "one of the great truths of life is You Should Not Pee in the Dark. Because, you just never know what's really happening." He's right, of course, as the NG would no doubt agree.
The NG asks Hostetler what he thinks about Oregon, and maybe going there, together. "You could be my apprentice," he tells the older man, "and carry love notes from pot-gut shitheads to those fat-ass women that they keep on the side." As appealing as this sounds, Hostetler thinks maybe no. In the darkness, they hear the neigh of what we can assume to be that damn wild horse. "I'm gonna catch that sumbitch and take him back to camp," Hostetler says. "That could," the NG advises, "bring about some killin'."
Hostetler says if the men of the camp want to kill the horse, that's on them. He guesses it's their right. "But they ain't," he adds, "gon' get to kill me."
The NG scoffs. "'Cause when it comes to them cases," he says, "you'll blow your own fuckin' head off. And once you've cheated those white cocksuckers, won't they just roll around and gnash their teeth." Good one, NG. Hostetler asks him what he means by "cheat," and the NG continues his sarcastic rant: "'Goddamn! Hostetler beat us! He done come out victorious with his fuckin' head blown off!'"
Hostetler gets indignant, refusing to play along, saying he ain't never cheated no white cocksucker in his life, and for that matter, no n*gger, either. The NG sits up, rolling his eyes. "They ain't hung you yet, Hostetler," he says, looking over at his stubborn friend, "and maybe they won't even get the chance...but they sure have made you crazy with pride."
Hostetler thinks on this, deciding to ignore it. "A man that did go back to tell his part," he postulates, "and brought the horse that he set loose...to them that he caused to suffer...paid respect for the pain that he couldn't fix..." Let me interrupt to say, BAD IDEA. Please run, Hostetler. He goes on, saying that, you know, hypothetically, if he were to do this, and everyone forgave him (making it unnecessary for him to kill himself, lest he be killed), well...maybe THEN he'd go to Oregon "with whatever fuckin' loudmouth went along with him" and maybe, MAYBE, they could open a livery. "Well, then," the NG says, resigned to it, "let's find that fuckin' horse."
At the Bella Union, business is in high swing. Cy smokes a cigar as Wolcott sits, looking bored, probably mentally calculating the minutes until he can kill someone again. Jarry shows up and tells them all about his meeting with Al and Adams. He lays out the story as truth, adding that "it emerges further that, pretensions to holiness notwithstanding, your Sheriff Bullock is the courtship's go-between." Hee. Pretensions to holiness, indeed.
Cy laughs at this. "There's all kind of sense in that...Bullock bedding down with Swearengen," he says, "being that they nearly killed each other." Nevertheless, Jarry says, that seems to be the case. Wolcott asks, with limited patience, what information the rest of the meeting yielded. Jarry reveals the $50,000 deal Bullock and Swearengen would allegedly get from Montana to back their interest. Again, Cy is in disbelief, saying Al's "losing his belly for the grift. I'd have said they offered a hundred."
Jarry says that it's impossible to know what offer was made, or if one was made at all and, if made, whether or not it would be honored by Montana. Wolcott asks if Swearengen will consider other offers. "That Swearengen traffics in bribes," Jarry says, "I testify to, firsthand." Cy gives a no-shit laugh. Jarry tells Wolcott that his employer, Hearst, will have to decide whether or not he wants to pay Al, but that like it or not, Al's backing of whatever interest is to annex the camp is going to be key. Jarry advises that, knowing this, they should pay Al. He also advises Cy, who is obviously against the enlistment of Al's support, that "combat makes comrades," and thus, he should be resigned.
"Biggest fish I ever seen landed, Commissioner," Cy smarms. "Did I say that resigned enough?" Wolcott ignores this exchange, and asks Jarry if Al has received word about the condition of William Bullock. This annoys Cy, who remarks with heavy irony that it's surprising just which comrades will "show up sentimental."
And what a condition young William is in. Wheezing and gasping, he's going down slow as his folks look on. Get out your handkerchiefs, my sentimental comrades. We're in for it.
As Martha wipes William's forehead in silence, it finally occurs to Bullock what to talk about to their dying son. I am already crying. He says aloud to William that Trixie asked him to thank William for helping her with her numbers, today. He goes on, glassy-eyed, to describe the ducks that are landing on Spearfish Pond. Martha is trying to hold herself together. Through tears, she tells William that his father is eager to hear him sound his duck calls. "Hear you callin' them in," Bullock says, having to clench to keep himself from falling apart. This is perhaps the saddest little tableau ever, seeing this dying child surrounded by his emotionally confused parents.
Bullock pauses to stifle a sob, and says, "I'm proud of the calls you've made. I've much enjoyed showing you how to make them, and how you make them better than I do." I wonder, right here, if Bullock is speaking as himself, or as his brother, William's actual father. I remember William was talking last week about how his father knew all about duck calling, but then Bullock said they would go calling, later, and...who cares, right? It's all terribly sad, and I'm sad and we're all sad.
"Thank you," Bullock goes on, "for caring for your mother at times when I'm away. It's a comfort to know you are with her. I am much pleased now that we all can be together." Martha says she, too, is very pleased, "as is your father." Bullock repeats it all, like he wants to reiterate the important parts: "Calling ducks...and your garden...helping your mother...and that we love you..." Martha tells William to rest, now, that they will all rest and rise up together.
I, too, have to rest, because I am just about dehydrated from the crying. It doesn't help that my father's name was William and his mother's name was Martha and my father's dad died when he was a child and helped his mother a lot and loved her so much and that one day I hope to have a son to pass his name along...I mean...shit. I'm sorry, people. Clearly this show is trying to kill me.
And just when it does kill me, it brings me back to life, to kill me again. At the Grand Central, all is quiet. The guests are in for the night, and E.B., doing his rounds, finds Richardson on the staircase...apparently having some kind of ceremony with the buck antlers he's been carrying around. He is holding them aloft, pointing them to the very large set of antlers decorating the wall. "Account for yourself, Richardson," E.B. says.
Richardson explains that he's praying for the sheriff's boy. "To the god of antlers and hooves?" E.B. asks. Indicating his own personal antlers, Richardson says they "protected Mrs. Garret when she walked alone at night...I'm asking it to bless his journey." Oh, Richardson. I love your crazy, demented, addled mind. For once, E.B. only slightly bashes him. "Pray on, then, moron," he says, walking away to leave him alone, "for all the harm you'll do." Stepping back, he is sure to tell him to "leave off when the guests descend."
Elsewhere in the camp...well. Things are tense and watchful. Sol is sitting with Merrick and Blasanov. They share some coffee, look out the door toward Doc's, and wait. Sol eventually goes out and heads down the street. Al, on his balcony, also looks deep in thought. He comes in, goes downstairs, and sees Trixie, sitting alone in the empty, candle-lit Gem. "Why aren't you among the circumcised?" he asks her. When she looks at him with the most forlorn face imaginable, he tells her, resolutely, that "the day saw advances, Trixie. None miraculous." Trixie isn't surprised to hear this news, just sad. Al asks where Jewel is, and Trixie tells him Jewel is on watch, outside Doc's. "Why not stand with her?" Al says. She takes a shot, nods, and leaves. This is what passes for sympathy out of Al, which is more than anyone could expect.
My beloved Wu walks through the muted thoroughfare, carrying a covered cup. I think for a second that it's going to be some Chinese medicinal thing -- Ancient Chinese Secret! -- and that he's going to give it to Doc and it's going to miraculously cure William...but that ain't it. It's just tea, for Jewel, who is standing there, trying to keep herself warm. Wu: Sometimes he's sour, sometimes he's sweet. He kind of shoves it at Jewel without saying anything, or looking at her, but despite the social and language barriers, she understands he's trying to be kind. She thanks him, smiling, and tries to explain that she can't take it. "No...gimp...can't hold a cup..." If you've ever waited in a hospital as someone passes away, this scene will no doubt feel familiar to you. The B players like Wu, Trixie, Merrick...they all care, too. And all these little gestures are their ways of trying to help and to get through it, themselves. Sol and Trixie walk up separately and join Jewel, the three of them forming a little line.
Inside, things are bad. Okay, they are really bad. William is on his way out. He takes a deep, wheezy breath as the Bullocks look on in shocked grief. Then he takes another one. Then...he doesn't take any more at all.
Down at the Chez Amie, Doc is preparing to operate on Mose, but his mind is elsewhere, with William Bullock. "The hoof hits just one inch to the right," he says, "the boy's pain is gone...we don't have to watch him suffer...I doubt he's omniscient. I know he's myopic..." Jane interrupts his rambling, yelling at him to stay focused on "the fuckin' task at hand." Doc looks up, incredulous, but snaps back into action for Mose's procedure. Joanie is assisting like Deadwood's own Nurse Houlihan. They all squint and flinch when Doc digs in, saying they may not be able to find the bullet in all the fat, and if so, may not be able to remove it. "I guess we'll give it a fuckin' whirl," he says, and goes to it.
A new guest stops in to the Grand Central and introduces himself. His name is Cramed, and he's heard about the accident. E.B. says this Cramed guy looks familiar. Well, he should -- first-season devotees will remember Andy Cramed. He came to camp last year to hustle dice over at the Bella Union, but contracted smallpox. Cy had him dragged off into the woods and left there to die. Jane found him days later, not dead, and brought him back to the sick tents, where he recovered. Since we last saw him, Andy's cleaned up good. He's a preacher now. "How's the new racket pay?" E.B. cracks. Preacher Man doesn't find that funny. "Knowing this camp's without a minister," he says, "I come to be on call for the family." But...where did he come from, right? And how did he hear about William? Who knows?
Anyway, he wrings it out of E.B. where to find the family and the boy, and E.B. informs him of the room rates at the hotel. Apparently, clergy get fifty cents off. "Six dollars extra if they set up for dice in the room," E.B. says, because he just can't help getting his digs in. As Cramed leaves, E.B. shouts a warning after him should he run across Richardson in prayer. "Avoid looking left as you exit, if idolatry offends you." Heeeee.
Cramed goes out and heads down toward Doc's. We see Mrs. Garret, watching and fretting from the window. Down at the hardware store, Ellsworth, who has been keeping the shop, extinguishes the light and steps out, looking sadly in the direction of Doc's cabin.
Mrs. G decides she can stand it no longer, goes to her door, and heads out. She surprises Richardson, who quickly hides his antlers. She tells him good evening, and that she plans to go out and take the air. "I've left my door ajar, indicating my trust for you," she tells Richardson, "which you've well earned in days past escorting me so reliably." She asks him to stand in the hallway, should Sophia wake up and want her, so that he can tell the child, "Your mother is just away, Sophia, very, very soon to return and all is well." He says yes ma'am, and she further suggests that perhaps he could accomplish all of this without actually going into Sophia's room. Good idea, Mrs. G. Richardson again says yes, and Mrs. G leaves. Even E.B. is too saddened by the camp's tragedy to make an oily remark.
The preacher approaches the cabin, passes the line of mourners, and waits. Mrs. G comes into the street and is joined by Ellsworth. Inside, Martha and Seth sit beside the body of their son. At the Gem, none of the patrons are making a sound. Al himself seems lost in thought.
Bullock comes out of the cabin, now, and is met by Cramed. They share a private conversation. From his vantage point, Sol sees this, and knows. He turns away from Trixie and Jewel, back toward the store, and walks through this damn deadly camp, alone.