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Al receives a telegram from Hawkeye saying he's got reinforcements -- to the tune of twenty-three men -- en route to Deadwood. As one might expect, Al is dubious. Meanwhile, Hearst is positively brimming with backup. For one thing, he's got Jarry's ballot-stuffers in Sturgis (one of whom, by the way, is played by David Anders), who get clenched at by Bullock as he prepares to make his stump speech. Hearst's also got his new hired guns in Deadwood, and their first order of business is to murder poor, sweet Ellsworth. It is awful. And the aftermath is intense. Alma and Sophia huddle up at the Gem, while a thoroughly distraught Trixie strides bare-breasted up to Hearst's room and SHOOTS HIM...in the shoulder. Dude won't even have to take a sick day. So Trixie knows she's fucked (metaphorically this time) and begs Sol to kill her lest he take a bullet in her stead. Neither happens. The troops rally at the Gem, including Bullock, Charlie, and Langrishe. And also E.B., whose usual impotent flutterings are now pointed in the direction of Hearst's demise.
Knowing he needs muscle and needs it right quick, Al commissions Wu to go fetch men from Custer City, and Wu -- who will tell you he is a "big man" -- sets forth with an emphatic "heng dai!"
Elsewhere, Merrick pens an editorial that "wafts" blame for the Alma shooting onto Hearst, Jane takes part in a rousing game of "Duck, Duck, Goose," and Harry Manning still can't stop farting. One episode left! Want more? The full recap starts right below!
It's dark in Deadwood. At the hardware store, Bullock paces back and forth as Charlie, Sol and Trixie look on nervously and Harry dozes outside in his saddle. Everybody's hackles are up tonight. Cy's at the Bella Union, switching between violently smoking a cigar and violently abusing his new whore's emotions. Leon rushes in to give a report on what's going on at the hardware store. "It's Bullock, Star, Utter, and Trixie," he says. "And Harry Manning's outside on a sorrel." Cy asks what Trixie's doing over there. "I don't know," Leon answers. "They ain't fuckin' her." Ha, ha, Leon. As you should already know and will soon be reminded, Trixie's got a bit more going for her than those particular talents.
Thing is, Cy isn't the only one jumpy about the clenching over there. In his room at the Gem, Al bitches to a nude Dolly about his own worries. He doesn't get why Bullock isn't meeting with HIM instead of taking the counsel of others. "What the fuck is afoot in that hardware store?" he bites. "Facing the dawn united, we're even odds for disaster, let alone in fuckin' factions." Al tells her that though he knows Bullock to be crazy, he's sure the sheriff wouldn't go against him. He laughs, figuring that Bullock has decided that this Hearst bidness can only be faced by the righteous and upstanding members of the camp. Well, Al ain't having it. "I'm going over there," he declares. "I am going the fuck over. Let them fucking try to exclude me, huh?" With this, he prepares to storm out, but catching another glimpse of Dolly's uh, well...humongous rack, can't help but add, in a not unfriendly tone, that "you know, saying I like you hefty don't mean you couldn't stand losing a couple of fuckin' pounds." Aw, man. Poor Dolly lowers her eyes and prepares to go on Richardson's cabbage soup diet. I mean, I figure he's on one -- he looks like he smells like cabbage and, anyway, what in the world else is there to make a soup with in that camp?
Outside his room, Al is confronted by the moaning Merrick, still in pain from his rib-thrashing. The newspaperman has, however, rallied and prepared an article for which he seeks Al's approval. Al has no time. "Whatever you'd have me scrutinize," he says, trying to wave him off, "must wait until certain cocksuckers have received a piece of my mind." They are interrupted by Blazanov with a telegram for Al. While he reads it, Merrick pesters him about the article, which is about Mrs. Ellsworth being fired upon in the thoroughfare. "Short of accusation," he asks, hopefully, "do I waft the odor of complicity at Hearst's direction to settle not only upon his clothing, but as it were, on the man himself, in the very fabric of his being?" Al hasn't heard a word -- he's reading the telegram. "This is bullshit!" he screams, causing poor Blazanov to apologize. It's a telegram from the hated Hawkeye, who claims he has hired 23 men and that they are on their way to Deadwood. "This squaw-fuckin' idiot," Al complains, with hatred, "proves in eight words he's incompetent and a fuckin' liar." There's no way, Al says, that Hawkeye could have already seen to the hiring of quality muscle and, furthermore, he rants right in Blazy's face, "'on our way' means they're getting drunk and blown in some saloon in Cheyenne and running their mouths about this big fuckin' filibustering expedition they're being commissioned for under the command of the famous Hawkeye -- the laziest, most shit-faced whore-mongering cocksucker to ever piss my money away!" Adams, who has just stuck his head out one of the upstairs doors, thinks better of appearing right now and retreats, leaving Blazanov to bear Al's wrath alone. "Please do not strike me!" the messenger begs, and Merrick moves in swiftly to distract the raging Al with the rest of the article.
At the Grand Central, E.B. has come to a personal crossroads. He remains frozen to the spot in which we last saw him. The spit (bleeegghhh) on his face has dried, as to Hearst's wishes, but his eyes betray the division in his soul. "That I have not wiped his expectoration from my cheek is understandable; I'm threatened with death if I do," he explains to no one. "That I stand immobile these hours later speaks of a flaw in my will." E.B., like anyone who has suffered a severe shock, narrows his eyes, expecting the other shoe to drop. "Surely this is not the culminating indignity. There remains, for example, receiving his regurgitations or swallowing his feces!" Oh, E.B., you speak for all of us, out here, downtrodden by The Man. He makes a decision and whips out his handkerchief. "Would I stand stoic, still?" he asks, and blood boiling, addresses his imaginary nemesis, Hearst, calling upon his years of Swearingen training. "I am going to fuck you up," he mutters, wiping his face. "I'm going to fuck you up, and I'm the kind of c*nt you'll let close." He stomps out of his back room, passing Richardson on the staircase, in prayer. He doesn't even break his stride. "Quit it, Richardson."
Merrick is still holding Al up at the Gem, hoping his article gains approval. "Perfect," Al says, dismissing him with a wave of his glasses. "Fuckin' wafts just the way you want it to." He goes out into the street where he runs into Langrishe. "Young man," Jack greets him, perhaps surprised to see him out so late, "at the soul's dark hour?" Al shakes his head. "Name one that fuckin' ain't," he scoffs, as E.B. joins them, staring expectantly. He invites himself to attend their business in the hardware store and they all head in, interrupted by Harry, still in the saddle, who farts himself awake. "Excuse me," he says, as they look over at him. "Waiting for the sheriff; we campaign in Sturgis." He falls back asleep as Al and the gang go inside. A rider passes him at a quick clip, looking at the whole scene with curiosity. How bad do you feel for the actor who plays Harry? He gets a role on this great show and he's...the good-natured farter? Can you imagine? Actor: "What's my motivation?" Milch: "Beans."
Inside, Al gets right to the point. He's pissed. "A meeting, I gather, of the upper fucking crust exclusively," he snarks. "No hoi polloi need apply." Now, Al, you know you are neither hoi, nor polloi. Bullock is appropriately understanding of his frustration. "I ought to have called you," he says, kindly bring Al up to speed. "What events in the camp would argue I be called back from Sturgis is what we are trying to decide." Sol adds to this placating by adding that really, it's not an official meeting. "Now I don't feel so horribly injured," Al says, dryly. Jack chimes in theatrically, like representing counsel: "The meeting, per se, is what he'll not be kept from." They all smirk, and Al introduces Langrishe, vouching that he's all right. Needing no introduction, E.B. gives a quiet wave.
In his rooms, Hearst meets with the rider we just saw passing the flatulent Harry. Hearst is quite pleased that no one noticed him come into town. "I'd keep from the camp that your janissaries have arrived." Y'all, "janissaries"? Please understand that I had to whip out the closed captioning for that one. What are we going to do after week for all our new word learning? I expect my growing crossword acumen to seriously suffer. I know my husband is going to come downstairs two Sundays from now to find me, unwashed and wandering, in full Deadwood withdrawal tremors, the Bible in one hand and a desk reference book in the other, mumbling some shit like "blah blah blah...River Styx...Lot's wife...Custer...fair Juliette...the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam..."
The meeting per se is in full swing back at the hardware store. Sol summarizes what we've missed and suggests a solution: "Under very specific circumstances we'll wire you to make early return." Bullock, glad that someone, anyone, has come up with something, clenches meaningfully that yes, that's exactly it. Unfortunately, that one brainwave is all Sol's got. "And those [circumstances]... would be?" he asks, as they all look expectantly at the silent Bullock. It takes him a minute before he starts a list. First of all, "any further shooting out of the ordinary." Charlie nods, saying especially if the shooting is at Alma. Secondly, Bullock lists "Hearst-initiated horseshit of any sort." Sol wonders aloud if Bullock should even bother trying to make it to Sturgis for the speeches. "Hearst-initiated bullshit is inevitable," Trixie points out, in agreement. They all fall silent, knowing this is true. Langrishe tries to liven the mood. "Surely, sir," he boosts Bullock's ego, "you leave in the certain knowledge that you are the camp's irreplaceable man." Trixie all but snorts: "He don't need no further encouragement in that way of thinking." Nice one, Trixie. Charlie mentions that, should it come to sending a wire, that someone else might be better suited for the job. "I put that Russian ill at ease," he says. Sol quietly remarks that he does all right with Blazanov and Al makes move to exit. "My meetings," he shoots back over his shoulder to those gathered, "I provide refreshments."
Hearst is still meeting with his new Pinkertons. "You were shown the tent of the man I want killed first?" he smugly confirms, and the brick nods somewhat reluctantly. Siiiigh. I know we've seen it coming, but this is going to send me down for the count.
What follows is a lovely scene between Claudia and the Countess. I mention this subplot only to highly praise Cynthia Ettinger, who I find to be really fabulous as Claudia, but...again, with only one episode left, these characters are relegated to this confusing backlot of a story that might never be explained and, you know, we ain't got time. Allow me to put it lightly: she's upset that Langrishe is moving the dancer into the theater and dramatically mourns the loss of Langrishe's romantic attentions. The Countess persuades her, through flattery, from leaving the troupe. On her way back to her own room, Claudia passes Richardson, who is still praying, antlers held aloft, on the stairs. "I juggled at amateur night," he says as she goes by and in her frustration she snaps back at him, asking what he's doing now. "Praying for my loved ones," he says. She can't help but be moved. "How nice," she says, beginning to cry. "Lucky them."
Ellsworth is in his tent, talking to his old friend, the terrier. As if this scene weren't emotional enough, they have to throw in his buddy, the cutest dog ever? The dog listens, attentively, as Ellsworth discusses his concerns about Sophia's reaction to his absence from the house. He's afraid all this recent hullabaloo with Alma getting shot at has caused her to remember the trauma of her original family being murdered. His pal nods appreciatively. "When I've left, have I given the mother more calming down to do before she gets the child asleep?" he asks. "Them's the sort of things is what you have to consider." Suddenly, the dog whips his head toward the back of the tent and growls. Ellsworth sees the Pinkerton's gun just seconds before the guy shoots him right in the forehead. He falls to the floor of the tent, dead, and the dog runs away where, I hope, he plots rabid fantasies of revenge against Hearst. I promise you, my own terrier is doing just that right now. HATE. Hearst you cocksucking bastard. Endless kudos to Jim Beaver. I loved every second Ellsworth was on screen.
The group at the Gem are hanging out silently -- like a bunch of kids trying not to disturb their hungover dad while he reads the morning paper, as Al does now. He feels Merrick staring at him. "Must you hover, fucking Merrick?" he snaps, and Merrick admits to wondering if Al has any further thoughts on his article. "Didn't I tell you how well it wafted?" Al asks, clearly over Merrick's need for reassurance. "Merrick, it's a good article," he sighs. "It'll no doubt irritate him, fucking Hearst, but I'm wakeful wondering who he's likely to shoot at , so with regard to that I've gave your article all the thought I need to." The ever-bumbling newspaperman never knows when to count his blessings that Al has not stabbed him, and can't shut up. "Who do you think he might shoot at?" he asks, suddenly nervous. Adams and Johnny cringe, knowing what's coming. That's one too many questions and Al loses it. "I have no fucking idea, Merrick," he says, irritated. "I doubt it'll be long before we find out, and in the fucking interval until we do, I guess I'll just have to abandon any prospect of finding respite in any part of your rag I could just fucking READ without having to evaluate how it fucking WAFTS!" He lunges up from the table to stomp upstairs, no doubt looking for a little peace and quiet. Except, you know, now that he's mad, he might as well jump all over that telegram bullshit from earlier. "Oh, which leaves me the solace of contemplating the journeying hither of the intrepid fucking Hawkeye," he snarks, evilly, "and his twenty-three fucking reprobates to even the odds in the coming combat." Adams cringes again, much worse this time. "Didn't tell you that, did I, Adams? Hawkeye's wired to announce he's on his way. Does that sound likely to you or does it confirm our deepest doubts about his incompetence and veracity? And mine, in turn, about you that I allowed to fucking vouch for him!" He slams into his office. Under his (beautiful) beard, Adams is pale. Dryly, he turns to Merrick: "Couldn't let him read his fucking paper."
We cut to Sturgis, where Bullock and Harry wait to give their speeches to the potential voters. "I won't be lingering once we've finished," Bullock tells his opponent. "If you want to stay and politic, you'll have to ride back alone." Harry nods, and in the silence is overcome -- he wants to, he says, apologize for an, er, incident that occurred that morning in Bullock's house. "Your wife, good enough to ask me in for breakfast..." he starts. Oh, no. Harry! Farting in the House of Bullock! The sheriff tries to stop him from mentioning it, but Harry can't help himself. "That lovely woman," he frets, "putting her hand behind her for support when I feared she might fall to the floor." I pause the Tivo to shake off the mantle of superiority I have been feigning over these fart jokes. I mean, fine, I'm not made of stone. It's funny. To everyone, that is, except Bullock. Distracting himself by looking around, he spies a soldier leaning in through the window. The clench comes on pretty quick. "There's no Sioux around here," Bullock points out, all bossy. The soldier chooses this moment to crack wise. "Shall I go find some, ask 'em to join us?" he asks, and Bullock asks him again why the troops are bivouacked. "Seems like you got me confused for a general," the soldier jokes, causing Bullock's mustache to stand on end with anger. "Don't be grazing by the windows," he bitches. "Come in and listen or stay the fuck out of sight." The soldier, and rightly so, wonders where Bullock gets off with all these orders. "I guess," he says, "you got yourself mistaken for a general." Another soldier pipes up that they're there for the election, "maybe gonna exercise the franchise." Harry comes over to tell Bullock that the crowd is ready for them to speak, but Bullock is now in full clench. "Have they told you yet who you're voting for?" he spits at the soldiers, and nearly grinds his teeth to dust when the guy says "Not yet."
Back in camp, things are bad. Real bad. A wagon rolls by under a tight camera shot, and we see Ellsworth, laid out in full. Alma runs out to find her second husband dead and gasps in terror, barely pausing before hurling herself onto the boardwalk, calling for Charlie. He hurries to her side as the camera whips around them, illustrating the horror and frenzy of the moment. Charlie leads the sobbing Alma to the opposite boardwalk as the wagon carrying Ellsworth passes by the Gem. Al, on his balcony, looks down and sees the body and the look that crosses his face in that split second says it all: Fear. Sadness. Confusion. It's unbelievable. In three full seasons, Ian McShane has never let Al register a single moment of true shock. Because, what could surprise Al, really? But now, seeing Ellsworth, for one hair's space his eyes go wide. The long-anticipated bullshit has started. Just as quickly, he recovers himself and, as Hearst does from his own balcony where he, too, has been watching, goes quickly inside.
In the hotel hallway, Hearst comes face to face with Langrishe who is struggling to get his key in his lock. He stares Jack down, ramrod straight, and Jack fumbles crazily to get into his room, obviously sensing that Satan has finally arrived in town.
Al strides swiftly out of his office. "Ready for fuckin' Freddy?" he asks as they all reach for their guns. "Hearst's let his dogs loose." He starts handing out orders. "Davey, get to the Russian. Tell him to wire Sturgis. Say to wire Bullock as agreed." Charlie brings Alma, sobbing, into the Gem. "I want my child," she begs him, and he assures her that he'll go get her now. He looks at Al. "Mr. Ellsworth..." he says, desperate, "Mr. Ellsworth's been shot. Mr. Ellsworth's been killed." Again, Alma cries out for Sophia, and Charlie rushes out. Alma is hanging by a thread. "Oh, what did I do to him?" she groans to Al, who is using all his strength to hold himself together. "We'll go upstairs, get you a drink," he tells her, quivering with intensity. She continues to keen: "What did I do to that poor man?" Al looks her straight in the face. "You," he says, firmly, "didn't fuckin' shoot him. And don't be going off into fucking hysterics, huh?" Alma stops her gasping and stares at Al, her old enemy, now the voice of reason. After the briefest hesitation, she steps to him and in one swift movement, he has linked her arm through his and is patting her hand. The motion is so powerful, Agnes de Mille could not have choreographed it better. Al escorts her upstairs, speaking very calmly. "Collect your child," he says. "Utter will be back with her here any minute. Come on." He leads her up the stairs, and Jewel comes out, announcing to the fellas, who are all gunned up and hanging around the door, that she is going to make Mrs. Ellsworth breakfast. Well, that ought to make her feel better.
Outside, Trixie is coming across the thoroughfare when she sees the wagon carrying Ellsworth. She is filled with dread as she realizes what has happened, and openly sobs. E.B., too, from his window, watches the body go by and puts his hands to his head in shock. From his position at the Bella Union door, Cy has also seen the wagon. He shoots a look up at Hearst's balcony of total scorn and derision. He swings around in disgust to his henchmen, heaping hatred on Hearst, calling him a "pinchbeck mothefucker."
Words, though, are not enough for what Trixie's feeling. Still crying, she pulls up her skirt, yanks her famous Derringer from her stocking and heads for the Grand Central. Like a fearless warrior, she yanks open her shirt to reveal her bare breasts. E.B. sees her coming and, if he had any reservations before about whose side he would end up on in this fight, he's made up his mind, now, as he desperately tries to cover for Trixie, pretending that Hearst must have called her over to the Gem for a rendezvous. "My goodness! Bare-breasted. My word!" he trills, trying and failing to keep it light. "Who has commissioned such behavior? Who summons you with such power to do his will?" She's already up the stairs and knocking on Hearst's door. "Mr. Hearst? Mr. Hearst?" she calls innocently. Hearst is at the window, smug bastard, witnessing the parading of his handiwork. He goes to the door and as he opens it, Trixie whips up her skirt, exposing herself fully. Why does she do it? Could be to show that she's not afraid of him. Could be to fully distract him -- which it does -- so that she can aim and fire. She shoots him...unfortunately only hitting him in the shoulder. Wounded, he slams the door in her face and she moves swiftly back down the stairs, her shirt still open, as his goons rush up. E.B. continues his attempt at coverage as she passes by on the way out. "Did someone interrupt your rendezvous?" he asks, overly loud. "Did someone else attack him? Cover those things!" Yes, Trixie, please do -- that was possibly the most overstimulating, amazing thirty seconds of television I have seen in long time. Bravo, Paula Malcomson.
But it's not over yet. Realizing what she's done, she throws the Derringer into a water bucket and makes her way to the hardware store, breathless. "Give me your fucking poot butt gun," she cries to Sol. He sees she's freaked and asks why. "Fucking shoot me with it if you don't!" she demands and he desperately asks what's going on. "Ellsworth's murdered," she sobs hysterically, "and I fucking shot Hearst, and I don't think I killed him! Shoot me or he'll do for all of us!" Sol takes her by the shoulders as she begs repeatedly for him to shoot her. He grabs her and pushes her out the door towards the Gem.
At the Bella Union, the intensity of the morning has sent Cy around the bend. He takes it out on his whores, verbally assaulting them all down the line and ripping up their fancy outfits. The shots are fast so I can't be sure, but I think one of these girls is Tess, who is played by Powers Boothe's daughter. Um, I know that acting is a craft and an art and all that, but I'd be hard pressed to call my own child a c*nt right to her face, no matter the role. I hope it's another girl, damn. Anyway, he's upset -- perhaps Cy is realizing his allegiances to Hearst have been misplaced all along? See what happens when you cheat on Al?
Meanwhile, the day goes on as usual out in Sturgis, where Bullock is just beginning his speech, telling the local hooples about how he and Sol came to Deadwood in '76, yadda yadda, hardware bidness. He is interrupted by the arrival of a telegram which is passed up to him through the crowd. "I will venture my life," he says, as the telegram is handed over, "that law-abiding persons will be secure in their rights and their property." And on that note, he reads the message, and heads out to...do just that.
As Bullock takes off for Deadwood, E.B. races into the Gem yelling "he's dead!" Dan looks confused and asks who he means. "Hearst!" E.B. answers, hysterical. "And at my hands, or the thing to it!" Dan is shocked. "BOSS!" he hollers upstairs where Al is sitting with Mrs. Ellsworth. Al excuses himself, saying that the gimp is on her way up with breakfast. He realizes that what he has said might have been too harsh, and corrects himself: "Jewel." Downstairs, the fellas are wigging out as the camera spins around the room and E.B. explains what happened at the hotel. "E.B. said Trixie killed Hearst!" Dan calls up as Al emerges from his office. Al pauses at the rail and contemplates the possibilities. Of course, he realizes immediately that he probably couldn't be so lucky to have the asshole really be finished off. "You saw him dead?" he asks E.B, skeptical. E.B. has to admit that he didn't. Al sighs the sigh of the damned and asks how bad he was hurt, then. E.B., batting zero, says he's not sure. "Well, how bad did Trixie say he was hurt?" Johnny raves. E.B.'s beginning to flip out, for real. He really, really needs Hearst to be dead; otherwise, his little performance at the hotel is going to come back to bite his ass. "If he wasn't hurt," he panics, "wouldn't I have seen him pursue her?" Al offers no comfort. "What you mean is," he spits, "she might not have fucking shot him at all!"
The hateful truth appears now in the thoroughfare as Hearst strides out, gripping his shoulder, but obviously not badly hurt. "Four steps removed," he grunts to his Pinkertons. "No fucking closer." Whatever, tough guy.
From his post in front of the saloon, Adams sees all and calls to Al who goes to the door as E.B. continues to go to pieces. Dan finally tells him to shut up as they all step outside to see Hearst on his march down the alley. Shit. "I'm a dead man," E.B. says, distraught. Al, dryly: "You ain't gonna be alone."
Back inside, Sol and Trixie have come in the rear entrance. "I've made this fucking walk before," Trixie says, still beside herself. Sol says all right and pushes her into the side room, telling her to wait there until he gets Al. "Then you get out!" she screams, sobbing anew. "Get out with your hovering and fuckin' clucking! Before hell breaks fuckin' loose."
Y'all, it is kind of breaking loose, and the only one holding it together is Al. Sol, who is a wreck, sees him and tells him that Trixie's in back. "Your idea, her coming here?" Al asks and Sol goes a bit too far with the backchat. "My fucking idea," he shrills, "after she did what she did. Was it your idea to have her do that?" Now, it should be some indication as to the magnitude of the hell-breaking that Al doesn't jump down his neck right here. Instead, he holds up a calming hand and goes to see Trixie, who is falling apart. He looks at her a moment in the open doorway and sighs and, almost sweetly, calls her a "loopy fucking c*nt." As terms of endearment go, I've heard better, but you can't ask for much more from Al.
That is the extent of their meeting, because, just now, Charlie rushes in with Sophia. He goes straight to the stairs, having to bypass Jewel who has just come out with the breakfast tray. Frustrated, Johnny tries to take the tray up, himself. "No, you fucking won't," Jewel says and tries to go quickly up the stairs. Of course, she doesn't move too fast and finally Dan and Johnny have had enough. The hand their shotguns off to Adams, who hands them off to E.B., take Jewel by the elbows and carry her, tray and all, up to Al's office. There's quite a crowd in there. Al and Sol enter to find everyone staring sadly at Alma as she comforts Sophia. It's a moving picture. Sol removes his hat and no one speaks until Jewel turns and sighs, saying she's going to get another breakfast plate.
Jane and Joanie have come to the schoolhouse, having no doubt seen Charlie spirit Sophia away from there. As the children work on their lessons, Martha whispers to the women that she doesn't know what's going on. Jane throws up her hands. "Rely that something fucked has transpired..." she whispers, too loudly for Joanie and Martha's tastes. "With Mose God knows where, and me likely needed in camp..." she goes on, wanting to get in on the action. Martha and Joanie tell her to go ahead, that they can watch out for the kids. Jane starts to go. "Trouble jumps off, ring the bell," she says. "That'll bring me fucking running." Before she can leave, though, she gives a last glance at the children. She can't abandon her buddies â she likes them damn school kids. "Or," she decides, "I guess maybe I'll just stay instead."
Doc is down at the shack, removing the bullet from Hearst's shoulder. They are not alone in the room, however. Ellsworth's body is stretched out on the sickbed. My blood boils to see Hearst have no reaction to this. "I suppose there's some connection between his condition and yours," Doc asks innocuously and Hearst has the balls to deny it. "That bare-breasted woman who shot me seemed to think there ought to be," he jokes, groaning ask Doc digs for the bullet. Doc doesn't even pause in his work and continues to poke. "Go ahead," Hearst snarks, "knowing I'd appreciate less enthusiasm." He nods over to poor Ellsworth. "Through the years, that fellow's path and mine crossed several times," he says. "I never meant him a moment's harm, but the natural operation of my holdings and his bad luck brought me to figure in his imagination as some sort of bogey." He takes a swig of whiskey, what passes for anesthesia, and ruminates on Trixie. "I expect my attacker was a bawd connected somehow to [Ellsworth] before he married so luckily," he smarms. "Likely, she fell victim as he did to imagining me responsible for the change in her situation." Through all this, Doc says nothing, but doesn't let up in his ungentle task. His eyes go wide a few times, probably fantasizing about maybe removing the bullet, reloading into his own gun, and shooting Hearst again. "Often, because our interests are extensive," Hearst rambles unbelievably on, "people like me are believed the authors of events which may benefit our holdings, when our connection in fact is incidental." With much grunting and swigging on Hearst's part, Doc finally extracts the bullet. The way he's sweating, it's clear he'd like to shove it back in. "I have some calls to make," he says to his lying-ass patient. "Will your gunmen let me pass? Hearst goes all magnanimous and says that of course they will. Doc starts to get up to go, repelled by this...this snake on the motherfuckin' plains and Hearst can't help but notice. He narrows his eyes at the good Doc. "Don't you," he says, super evil, "want to dress the wound?"
Downstairs at the hotel, Langrishe's actors, including the recently absent Bellegarde, swallow their pride and welcome the dancer into their troupe. Meanwhile, Jack goes to the desk and puts on a bit of an act with E.B. for the benefit of the lingering Pinkertons. He needs to know what's up. E.B. slyly fakes rifling through his ledger to cover himself giving Jack the skinny on Hearst's shooting. "Hearst shot," he whispers, "the wound, alas, not mortal." Langrishe smiles at E.B.'s performance and leans in. "Booth," he congratulates him, "never went you better." With that, he throws a wicked scowl at the troupe and strides out the door leaving a very self-satisfied E.B.
Jewel is messing around in the Gem's kitchen when she is surprised by Richardson. "Goddamn it, Richardson," she admonishes him. "You're too ugly to be sneaking up on fucking people." Aw, man. Richardson holds a basket out in front of him, saying its from Mrs. Marchbanks. "We got all the fucking food we need," Jewel snaps, though she does step closer to the basket. "Who the fuck is Mrs. Marchbanks anyway?" Richardson: "It's Aunt Leeeww." Jewel sighs. "I guess I'd know her for Mrs. Marchbanks if she took time to introduce herself," she says, grudgingly taking the food and telling him to thank Lou. "Tell her my fucking name's Miss Caulfield," she says to his back as he leaves, and then pausing, to herself: "I think." Brilliant. And all it does is make me sick with anger -- can you imagine future seasons of this show when Aunt Lou and Richardson and Jewel become like the Three Musketeers and open a restaurant together? Could have happened! Right? I mean, maybe, and just how awesome? But, nooooo, no. We need more seasons of Tony Soprano, breathing all over everybody and, dare I say it again, those damn Entourage BITCHES and their stupid hair gel.
Langrishe enters the Gem as the boys and Charlie Utter sit around with Al, listening to him lay out the current state of things. He says that the terms have become clear to him. If Alma would keep her property, but leave, she could hire as many guns as Hearst has hired. They wouldn't be disadvantaged by having to protect her, since she'd be gone, so everything would at least be equal. However, he says, if she plans to stay in Deadwood, she needs to sell her claim to Hearst. Jack puts a hand on Al's shoulder, congratulating him for so pithily explaining it all, and Al, exhausted by the mental gymnastics, actually smiles as he sips his tea. Beautiful.
Upstairs, though, no one is smiling. Still clinging to her mother, Sophia whispers that she wants to feel Ellsworth's beard one more time. "Mr. Ellsworth," Alma says sadly, "is with God now, Sophia." (You're a stone if you're not crying. No, you're a statue. No! You're like, a statue of...Mussolini if this doesn't slay you.) "I want to feel his beard," Sophia tells her, "so I can pray that he's saying goodbye to me."
Little James is "it" in a game of Duck, Duck, Goose back at the schoolhouse. He tags Jane, who chases him gamely around the circle as his classmates cheer. She fails to catch him. "Outflanked by a boy half my size," she laughs. "time I'll get you, James!" They are all having big fun and even Joanie looks happy.
Upstairs, Bullock is still holding Sophia when Al enters. "Doc's here," he says pointedly to Alma. "Someone fell." She excuses herself and walks out. Sophia pulls away from Bullock and looks at him. "I want to see Mr. Ellsworth," she says. Poor Bullock is speechless. He looks at Al who is still in the doorway. They share a moment of sadness before Al goes out as well.
Elsewhere, Doc sits with Alma on some hidden Gem settee. The corner is dark and their heads are lowered. She has been discussing Sophia's sad request. "Are you certain," Doc asks, "that she saw her family dead?" Alma gasps, thinking of what Sophia has already been through in her short life. "Yes," she says. "I certainly assume she did."
Downstairs, Langrishe performs nothing short of a pledge of allegiance to his old campaigner. "The man I once was, Al, was not formidable, and I am but his shadow now," he tells Al. "And yet," he adds, placing his hand on his friend's arm, "I'd be put to use. A decoy, perhaps. A weight to drop on villains from above." Now that would be a strategy Hearst never saw coming. Human sandbags! Hell, Al, why not drop the whole acting troupe on him, for all the good they're doing otherwise?
Back on the couch, Doc and Alma review the circumstances of Sophia's arrival in Deadwood. Doc's pretty sure, he says, that Sophia's family hid her in the bushes before the massacre occurred and that she saw none of it. "For the child to have been found having been savaged by wolves, those hours later by strangers," he says, "and then taken away having never seen her family again, living or dead..." Mrs. Ellsworth cries. She knows what she has to do.
Charlie is restless downstairs, leaning up against the stair railing, trying to soothe his aching back. Langrishe notices and approaches him, shot in hand. "I can fix that," he says, raising his own glass in a toast: "Slainte." Charlie nods, and sits down to drink at the table where the rest of the fellas give him some good-natured ribbing. "Thought you was near pitching a tent and setting up housekeeping over on that first step," Dan teases him. The sudden turn in mood cracks Adams up so much he actually snorts. "You sound like a pig my cousin run off with," Charlie jokes back and they all have a little laugh. It occurs to me that I've never actually seen any of these guys really laugh. Must be gallows humor. I am glad, though, that they're being pals with Charlie. This little army is coming together nicely. Charlie asks for another drink and Dan gets him one, playing the "psyche" game by pulling it away at the last second before finally handing it over. They all snicker again and Charlie toasts them before throwing it back.
Al's considering Jack's suggestion of earlier. "If that cocksucker hadn't shareholders," he drones to Langrishe, "you could murder him while you adjusted his back." Jack gets a sage look. "Serpent's teeth, shareholders," he says. "Ten thousand would rise to replace him."
Upstairs, Sophia comforts herself by stroking Bullock's mustache. It's... not as gross or creepy as I just made it sound. Alma comes in, having made her decision with Doc. "All right, darling," she gently tells Sophia. "All right." Bullock picks the girl up and carries her out. Seeing them emerge, something occurs to Al. He asks for Jack's counsel. "Monitor my thinking, Jack," he asks. "Had Hearst wanted this woman killed, she'd be dead already." Langrishe agrees. So, Al figures, that for the moment, it is safe to let Alma and Sophia leave. "I would, sir," Jack agrees again, removing his hat as the other men in the room stand as the three come downstairs. Bullock says he's going to take Mrs. Ellsworth home. Alma pauses and then very directly and firmly extends her hand to Al. "I wish to thank you again, Mr. Swearengen," she says, making Al a little uncomfortable. He's not used to being thanked. Or liked. Alma looks at Bullock and Sophia and tells him that they are all very grateful. Then, deliberately, she takes Sophia's hand, removes her from Bullock's clutches and hands the sheriff back his hat. On the way out, Langrishe bows to Alma, wishing her his heartfelt condolences. "I get to see Mr. Ellsworth tomorrow," Sophia says, and Jack smiles at her. "Very good, young lady," he says. "God bless." Meanwhile, Al has explained to a confused Bullock that Trixie is with Sol over at his place. He suggests that Bullock might want to stand guard outside Mrs. E's. Bullock nods, saying he'll take Charlie as backup. "No, no," Al insists. "Hearst ain't gonna be coming for her." But, he adds, if it will encourage her to sell her claim, it might be best if Bullock made her think he was. "Not to jeopardize the tranquility of your own hearth," Al tacks on, preparing for Bullock to go into full clench over his former predilections. But, actually, Bullock has little reaction. Instead, the sheriff looks at Alma, pauses, and turns back to Al, sincerely thanking him, again, for looking after Alma and Sophia. They leave, followed by Charlie. "Nimbleness, lad. Dexterity," Langrishe says, complimenting Al on his handling of the situation. That's all well and good, Al smirks, but he'd prefer having the gun advantage in this showdown, instead of Hearst. "True, true," Jack consoles him. "The world is less than perfect." Ain't it the fucking truth?
Upstairs in his room at the hotel, Hearst perhaps feels he'd like to switch places with Al. "The camp is galvanized; people scurry about," he bitches to one of his bricks. "They've tasks to perform. They feel important." Aw, somebody feels left out. Again, if maybe you'd not be such a bitch, Hearst... He knows it, too. He feels the brick's eyes on him, and is uncomfortable in his vulnerability. "I oughtn't to work in these places," he says. "I was not born to crush my own kind." Yes, well, too bad you didn't think about that before you killed like, 97 people plus dear, sweet Ellsworth who should have just shot your ass full of buckshot like he wanted to all along.
Over at Sol's house, he and Trixie lay beside each other on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Back in the Gem, Al is doing his nervous, OCD cleaning thing where he polishes the bar with pure hate, when Johnny nudges him that Wu is coming in the back door. Well, he's trying to come in, anyway -- the Gem girls turn up their noses at him and don't do much to get out of his way, making it clear that they are repulsed by his presence. Al barely lets him into the saloon before yelling, in a very collegial manner, that he's to go into the whore's ready room. Wu, back in his traditional Wu ensemble, looks confused, but goes in, casting a few bows to the slovenly Gem whores as he does so. Al steps among the girls and jerks his thumb at the room Wu's just gone into to: "When he leaves," he says, fully serious, "them that ain't lining this fucking hallway like he's the tallest, best-looking white man ever got fuckin' lucky better prepare for a fuckin' beating." Right ON.
In the side room, it's Al's turn to do the drawing. Wu watches as Al tries to scribble out a picture of Wu going to Custer City and bringing back all his guys to Deadwood. Wu doesn't even want to believe what this crazy white devil is saying. "Wuuuu...." he says, looking up to the heavens. "Back Deadwood?!" Al says yeah, and he's to bring back all his guys. Wu's pissed. Has he not already offered to do this and received no more than an eyeroll from Al? Does Al think, for Buddha's sake, that he spends all day waiting around to be sent off on these missions? He has pigs to feed! Wu throws up his hands. "Wu! Custer City! Back Deadwood!" he sputters, staring at Al and launching into some raging Chinese. "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday! Ten day, Swedgin!" Al sighs. "I am sorry, Wu," he says, frustrated. "I'm sorry I made you wait, but I want you to bring them now." Al goes on to say that while Wu's gone, Al will have to figure out some explanation for all these Chinese dudes suddenly showing up in camp. "Oh, we'll give 'em guns, yeah," he adds, causing Wu to swell with pride. "We'll provide 'em with guns, so any of the slant-eyed bastards know what one is, or, perish the thought, know how to use one, we'll enhance our prospects." This makes Wu very proud, indeed. He summarizes the whole arrangement: "Guns. Chung Kuo. Wu, Custer City, back Deadwood. One hundred fifty Chung Kuo cocksucka, Swedgin." To finalize the deal, he kneels in front of Al, who preemptively tells him to shut up. But, no. This is important. Wu looks at him long and hard, and more seriously than he's ever said it, gives Al the sign: "Heng dai." Suddenly very tired, Al gives it back. "Heng dai," he says. "Heng dai, fuckin' Wu." Very satisfied, Wu bows and leaves. As he steps into the hallway the whores line up against the walls and lower their eyes. Wu goes out, congratulating himself: "Big man. Wu -- big man." He smiles, smug to the hilt, and is gone. Al steps from the room and sees a Gem patron sleeping over to the side. He points to him and calls back to the girls: "Rouse him to spend on pussy, or rob the son of a bitch." With that, the whores do a quick rock/paper/scissors and the unfortunate loser walks over to the man and wakes him. Back at the bar, in the closest close-up I've ever seen, Al pours himself a drink, takes a shot, deep, deep, deep in thought, and sighs. It's been a long day.