Horse run trash like that over by accident...
there ain't a white man on earth...
gonna stand up against roping us up, now is there?
- John Brown would have. - Come the fuck from over there, now.
- Sheriff got a kid? - And a wife.
I sold him the plot they built their house on.
Jesus.
Mrs Bullock!
Put that tub of guts on the sled. Take him to Joanie Stubbs!
Every day since I've been in this camp...
white folks shot and stabbing on each other...
still walking around to do their business.
Maybe we could, too.
Now, the onliest violence we meant...
was to that stallion's prick and then to turn an honest dollar.
- Closed! - Well, when you re-the-fuck-open...
note Jane Cannary extending stay in camp...
asking you to turn out her horse.
I'll note it down.
- Short Nigger General in there? - No!
How about that stud he brought into camp...
with his cock hanging past his hocks?
He ain't here.
Congratulations being closed!
There goes no one associating me with that horse.
I ain't begging them for mercy. I hadn't ought have to do that.
- Jesus Christ, Hostetler. - It's my fucking choice.
I ain't begged, and I ain't starting.
Now, I'm gonna break your fucking arm if you don't let go of that gun!
Let's ride for six hours, Hostetler.
Ain't no harm in that. You won't have to beg me once.
Hell, if you still want to do it, I'll shoot you.
If it come to that, I'd do it myself.
He's definitely alive 'cause being lifted into the cabin...
he give a moan out and blood come from his mouth.
- I told you the state of affairs. - As of 15 minutes ago.
Run back to the doc's cabin, Johnny! See the boy again.
Shut up.
Maybe since you saw him, he's changed...
or the half his chest stove-in may have healed.
- Or his poor broken head. - Shut up or I'll throw you out.
Sign these documents and leave unharmed.
I can't trust that, Mr Swearengen, being that it's not to your interests.
That applies to you most...
fucking sitting in that chair, distracting my fucking thinking.
If I have to come over there, I'll cut your fucking throat for you...
pen yet put to paper, or not.
Half-smart fucking cunt.
- Bring me Adams' fucking shadow. - Fucking Hawkeye.
- That poor boy. - What do you want?
The Sheriff's tragic preoccupation is also inopportune.
Commissioner Jarry returns to Deadwood.
How do you know?
Believing that Blasanov had borrowed my acacia gum...
and as Blasanov was no longer present...
as I canvassed his desk for the missing gum...
I came across the information by accident.
- Telegram from Jarry. - From Crook City.
- To whose attention? - To the separate attentions...
of Messieurs Wolcott and Tolliver.
Ironic, Al, isn't it...
that having turned my newspaper to partisan purpose...
and in the name of the camp's welfare, within the day...
in the name of that good, I progress to betraying without regret...
the sanctity of private communications?
Oh, well.
We come to know the truth of our actions only in the protractions of time.
- When's the cocksucker arrive? - Next coach, his message said.
Unless he's being of aid to Bullock, bring the Jew up here, too.
Do you think the rumours we floated in The Pioneer...
are what prompt the commissioner's return?
Yes.
And that wishing to pre-empt Montana and Wyoming...
he means to secure us for Yankton and Dakota.
And to sweeten the deal we'll strike...
these interests we've fabricated must be given face.
And thus, the uncharted journey continues.
Merrick, please.
As we'll be more often in each other's company...
when given to utterance of that type, consider drinking.
They congregate outside Cochran's cabin.
They've taken the child there.
Well, I wish him well.
Shit!
Where's Hawkeye?
I see, Dan, with the world off its axis...
I'm no more to you than a room clerk.
Hawkeye, E.B., is he here or fucking not?
Not. For three days.
Will you have a shine? Leave your shoes while you eat.
You see Hawkeye, you grab him and bring him to me.
If you'll leave your dirty clothes, I'll see to them.
- Did you fucking hear me? Hawkeye! - Yes.
A broken heart does not impair hearing!
Did they get that fat bastard to Joanie's?
Did her ladyship take him in?
Ain't towed him halfway yet, boss, Leon and Con.
We got to get a better sled.
Less the sled's hold-up than Con's.
Says he threw a rupture.
You go back to that fucking circus act...
and tell him to get Mose Manuel to Joanie's...
or a rupture won't be a tickle to the pain I'll throw at him later.
- Commissioner. - Where will I find Sheriff Bullock?
His boy had an accident. He's with him at the doc's.
- Where is the doc's? - Oh, don't be a fool.
Yankton's interests force imposition on Bullock's privacy...
as I think, Mr Wolcott, do your employer's.
You'll get a pistol-whipping and not learn a fucking thing.
These injuries mortal to earn such commendable deference?
Mortal's how I'd be betting.
Of course that casts a different light. Very sad for the Sheriff and his son.
Can that paper man be made sensible?
The article's a plant from Swearengen, if that's what you'd want to ask Merrick.
That's the beginning of what I want to ask.
Don't take much, does it, Commissioner...
to get your balls tucked up?
They are very sensitive to changes in weather.
You feel one coming on?
I am a sinner who does not expect forgiveness.
But I am not a government official.
- AI wants to see you at the Gem. - When I can.
- No, he didn't say nothing about... - I'm saying.
- You're saying what? - When I can.
Are you getting fucking smart with me?
'Cause I'll lift you up in the air...
and carry you before the whole goddamn camp...
like a fucking turtle with its legs wiggling.
You go on and wait. Hey! Hey, Adams.
- Where's Hawkeye? - I don't know. What did he do?
- AI's looking for him. - For what?
You're about to take a goddamn beating...
for every fucking time I've been asked, "What for?" already today.
Any chance Al wanted Hawkeye to ask him where I was?
I got to take a shit.
- Put it off. - Won't be put off.
Besides, it ain't the kind that takes that long.
I'm waiting. I ain't going back empty-handed.
Fine, fuck it. Just keep your distance.
Just 'cause I'm looking for a bottle...
I might have misplaced during my drinking days...
does not mean if I find a bottle...
that I'm going to fucking drink it.
Jesus Christ!
You... You know whose horse it was?
"Whose horse it was," what?
- You don't bandage him. - Mr Bullock...
your frame or mine couldn't withstand a stampeding like that...
never mind the unstable one of a boy of William's years.
Further, his brain has been hurt to an extent...
indicated by the loss of control of his eyes.
His eye movements are no longer coordinated.
Might it be of some comfort, his mother talking to him...
for him to hear her voice?
It might well.
His father's, too.
Tell your wife that it won't hurt him to put a cloth to his brow.
Just stand there?
No, build yourself a fucking shrine.
No, I mean, should I knock and let Doc know I'm there...
and then stand the fuck outside?
- Yeah, do that. - Thanks, Trixie.
The cocksucker upstairs sends his retriever out to collect me...
with instructions I'm to wait till summoned.
I suppose then you should sit the fuck down.
And I come, too...
and find you like you never left this place to learn your numbers.
Did you teaching me make me accountable for my whereabouts...
the rest of my fucking days?
If he wants me, he can fucking come find me.
Why not wait and find out what he wants?
Why don't you tell me yourself?
- Because I don't know that, Mr Star. - Other events have a claim to attention.
He knows about other events.
- Ain't you his fucking lapdog, Trixie? - I ain't nobody's fucking lapdog.
Hard to think even of you coming to learn numbers...
without its being to his purpose.
Any more to that fucking thought?
I'll have a fucking drink.
Have the horse's piss. It's on fucking special.
If you couldn't be of use, he wouldn't have sent for you.
I wish I could help you more.
I've been walking for two hours.
I'm starting to think that place is a fucking mirage.
Let me take a turn.
Maybe I better not.
- He asked to see Hawkeye first. - This is Adams!
I know who the fuck it is!
So just shut the fuck up and sit down.
How do you lay claim to a passable mind while ignoring...
if I'd wanted to do you in, my inviting the Sheriff up here to witness?
By not putting it beyond your own mind's quality, Mr Swearengen...
to have enacted the incident in the thoroughfare...
which then drew the Sheriff away.
Have you come to murder me, Silas?
I wouldn't turn down the chance.
Even swayed at last by my manly composure, you sign in a false hand.
Mightn't this be my true hand...
and my hand to the hotel register, false?
Wish I had five like you.
I expect that puts you up.
Last thing required at a child's sickbed...
unlubricated drunk, sweating and fucking vomiting.
And I ain't one for blood, is my worry.
I may be worse hurting than him.
In whose keeping would the horse have been?
Whose oversight would have let him loose and not have seen him pursued?
Every answer lay at the livery.
I propose we put in towards a white satin comforter...
to be presented to the injured boy's mother.
"Back in three hours," scrawled in nigger...
on a sign pinned to the door.
I wish I'd have caught them leaving.
Torn-up fucking back and all.
Wish I'd have seen them run, the pure fucking niggerness of it.
Here's Tom.
Take that fucking thing outside.
Outside with it, leaned somewhere out of sight.
On behalf of all of us, just to say we're sorry.
Thank you.
Tom Nuttall bears no more responsibility...
in any fucking way...
to the hurt, to the Sheriff's boy than I do...
as an innocent, fucking, helpful bystander!
Jungle fucking niggers!
Before his present troubles and whilst you pursued your preferred activities...
your partner Bullock...
joined in a campaign to which I hope you will now subscribe.
What do you mean "my preferred activities"?
A reference to your people's penchant for money-getting.
A poor attempt at wit.
- I don't find those funny. - I apologise.
If you want my help, don't insult me.
Jesus Christ, show me the secret grip that proves my regret...
and let's be about our fucking business.
Will you salt Adams with expertise about Helena's politics...
and Butte's, to be taken by this cunt commissioner...
as samplings of a vein of familiarity...
so rich, wide and deep, as to leave this commissioner in no doubt...
that Montana, stiff-pricked, courted Adams...
as Deadwood's representative, so strenuously towards annexation...
it forced him to flee, lest he say, "Yes, yes, take us now."
And yield the virtue of the camp on the spot?
Yeah, I'll school him.
Does William Bullock continue unchanged?
As to Ellsworth's proposal of marriage, which way do you incline?
Do you take us in from on high then, Trixie...
- and are you privy to all our secrets? - Which way?
The prospect of Ellsworth, in the role of father, delights me.
If it's fucking him gives you pause, he'd never make you.
What gives me pause, having had the experience...
is the prospect of marriage without love.
Yeah, but when it came to cases, you took that fucking leap.
Ellsworth waits on your answer.
Whatever you await before giving it.
Bye-bye.
Names and places, Star, as instructed...
leaving it to us as to their deployment.
Butte's got Montana's gold.
Being territorial seat, Helena might well romance us...
for balance against Butte.
Clark and Daly are the two strongest men in the territory.
Both from Butte?
Both from gold exclusive?
Clark started in mercantile, but he's strong in gold now.
- Any chance they might combine? - No. They fucking hate each other!
Who's the later arrival?
Daly, from Salt Lake, with Comstock money behind him.
Backed with Comstock money, you'd consider his connection to Hearst?
What do we know of Clark's ways?
- Clark or Daly? - Clark, Star! We can't chance Daly.
I don't know Clark's ways or Daly's, either.
I'm not from fucking Butte, remember?
I wonder if Clark's ever been to Helena.
Yeah, he's been to Helena. I fucking ate with him once, all right?
Don't tell me you might recall what type appetite he exhibited...
or his preference as to food.
Don't tell me we might be fucking getting somewhere.
All right.
- Murder me, someone! - Quiet.
We slide these under the sled, lever the cocksucker vertical...
tilt him further forward and drop him on the sofa.
Why not just run at him from across the room...
and stab him with all three pitchforks?
- Ain't you gonna cut? - I have other patients.
I choose not to undertake a futile and exhaustive procedure.
Guessing through the fat where his heart is, bullet's lodged too close.
I'm still in fucking discomfort, Doc.
Nurse him, he's herniated.
He's the cardsharp told me about Bill.
I'd punch that cocksucker in the balls, before I'd cup them for comfort.
All right, slim.
- Hey, Joanie? - No chance, Leon.
The doctor says that the cloth to his brow may comfort William.
And being spoken to.
If I had kept him in Michigan...
Yes.
I want to take him home.
Doc says better he's not moved.
There's no better about it.
Is there?
What does the doctor tell us to say?
Mr Merrick, might we have a word?
You and I, Commissioner Jarry, have nothing whatever to discuss!
Seek your conversations elsewhere!
I hope that will achieve what the party adjoining us intends.
Thank you.
- So what the fuck do you want with us? - Shut up.
I hope that even in the gravest of outcomes...
the Sheriff's crisis could produce the blessing of our reconciliation.
- I'm listening. - Well, then shame the fuck on you!
Gentlemen, we are men of experience.
Self-interest is immutable, but its dictates vary daily.
You talk like you take it up the ass.
I do not, my friend Adams, take it up the ass.
Don't call me your fucking friend!
But I suspect those that do, consider that they advance their own interests.
Like them, shall we not pursue that which gratifies us mutually?
If you'd calm the fuck down.
I'm the one he insulted. I've got pride, if you fucking don't.
I've got pride, I just know when to fucking swallow it.
Maybe you take it up the ass!
Jesus fucking Christ, must I make you leave the room?
Gentlemen.
Tell him what Bullock had you doing.
Tell him what you were doing...
in Montana.
Any turn here, come get me at the Chez Ami.
- Sure, Doc. - I'm gonna be operating on a whale.
It strains credulity.
The imagination balks.
I sit here, right, and he calls me a fucking liar?
No one is calling you a liar, Mr Adams.
In fact, I'm sure even you would agree, the idea...
of a man conducting the business of his territory...
- from the back room of a restaurant... - The Stonehouse!
The Stonehouse...
offering a bounty for the allegiance of others...
while wearing a bag over his head.
I won't pretend it didn't strike me strange.
Maintaining anonymity, clearly, while forming an impression of Adams.
The mind imagines other paths to the purpose.
I'm giving less and less a fuck of what you strain and balk at, too.
Apart from what the bag bespeaks of the wearer...
what concerns me is their offer for your support.
Ask me what ought to concern us, is the offer fucking real?
We turn the camp toward Montana, $50,000 ain't unreasonable.
Though anyone can bandy numbers.
What's unreasonable is fucking Bullock's quote on his cut.
Clark would have the 50, but was the man really speaking for Clark?
Consider another alternative.
What if it was Clark who was speaking?
Why would a representative of Clark, unknown to Adams...
therefore unrecognisable, never to meet him again...
- conceal his identity beneath a bag? - Maybe he had open sores.
Clark knew you would be able to recognise him from photographs...
or at least it was a risk he might not want to take.
Anyways.
If Deadwood could grant an interval before answering Montana's offer...
I will convey my impressions to Yankton and learn whether they wish to counter.
I have no objection. Though I speak only for myself.
Mr Swearengen, you are far too modest.
Gentlemen.
What just happened?
We knocked the cocksucker up. And soon he will find himself delivering.
- The 50? - Elections.
- I wonder how that boy is doing. - Ain't my department.
You could put yourself to more distance.
I'm scared to go off in the dark.
I can't piss when I'm scared.
What about Oregon, Hostetler?
You could be my apprentice.
Carry love notes from pot-gut shitheads...
to those fat-ass women that they keep on the side.
I'm gonna catch that son of a bitch and take him back to camp.
That could bring about some killing.
Kill the horse, that's on them. I guess it's their right.
But they ain't gonna get to kill me.
'Cause when it comes to them cases...
you'll blow your own fucking head off.
And once you've cheated those white cocksuckers...
won't they just roll around and gnash their teeth?
What do you mean cheat?
"God damn, Hostetler beat us.
"He done come out victorious with his fucking head blowed off."
I ain't never cheated no white cocksucker in my life.
For that matter, no nigger, either.
They ain't hung you yet, Hostetler.
And maybe they won't even get the chance.
But they sure have made you crazy with pride.
A man that did go back to tell his part...
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.
Now if and it, it happened...
that they forgive him...
so he didn't have to do to hisself what he wouldn't let be done to him...
well then, I guard, that man might think...
setting forth afterwards...
with whatever fucking loudmouth went along with him...
that if he made it to Oregon alive...
the two of them might open a livery.
Then let's find that fucking horse.
- Back among friends. - With what increase in knowledge?
Mr Merrick proved reticent...
so I made a call to the Gem Saloon...
where Swearengen and that young cutthroat, Adams...
Yankton's young cutthroat times past, if memory don't deceive.
Adams, as it happens, had just returned from Helena.
He was sent there by Swearengen in order to hear from Montana...
and offer to annex this camp.
It emerges further that, pretensions to holiness notwithstanding...
your Sheriff Bullock is the courtship's go-between.
There's all kind of sense in that.
Bullock bedding down with Swearengen...
being as they just nearly killed each other.
Might not greed and enmity in Bullock...
be served by passing on to Swearengen...
an overture beneficial to Bullock's pocket...
requiring of Swearengen the demeaning business of filling it?
What did the Helena conversations produce?
An offer of $50,000 for Swearengen to back Montana.
He's losing his belly for the grift. I'd have said they offered 100.
Impossible, certainly, to know what offer was made...
and if made, would be honoured by Montana in the act.
Will they entertain other offers?
That Swearengen traffics in bribes, I testify to firsthand.
That your employer is a man of means, you have amply demonstrated.
Swearengen putting himself up for auction...
as he has not hitherto without the stipulation of local appointments...
is the development of consequence.
Let the Montana offer be real, or a fraud of his concoction...
Swearengen is certainly real.
Your employer will have to decide whether he wants to pay Swearengen...
and not quibble over his pumping the price.
And let those who are dismayed over the enlistment of Swearengen...
recall that combat makes comrades, and be resigned.
Biggest fish I ever seen landed, Commissioner.
Did I say that resigned enough?
Had Swearengen word of Bullock's boy?
It's surprising which comrades will show up sentimental.
Trixie asked me to thank you for finding her error in numbers this afternoon.
Ducks have landed on the Spearfish pond.
Father's eager to hear you sound your calls.
Hear you calling them in.
I'm proud of the calls you've made.
I've much enjoyed showing you how to make them.
Now you make them better than I do.
Thank you 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.
I am so much pleased, William.
As is your father.
All the ducks...
and your garden...
helping your mother, and that we love you.
Rest now, William.
We'll rest and rise together.
Account for yourself, Richardson.
I'm praying for the Sheriff's boy.
To the god of antlers and hooves?
It protected Mrs Garret when she walked alone at night.
I'm asking it to bless his journey.
Pray away then, moron, for all the harm you will do.
But leave off when the guests ascend.
Why ain't you among the circumcised?
The day saw advances, Trixie.
None miraculous.
Where's the gimp?
On watch outside Cochran's.
Why not stand with her?
Oh, no. Gimp. Can't hold the cup.
The hoof hits just one inch to the right...
the boy's pain is gone, they don't have to watch him suffer.
I doubt he's omniscient.
I know he's myopic.
Why don't you concentrate on the fucking task at hand?
Go on.
Hold this.
Now, we may not be able to find the bullet...
in and amongst the adipose tissue.
Or, finding it, we mayn't be able to remove it.
Or, removing it, to avoid killing him.
I guess we could give it a fucking whirl.
My name is Cramed.
I've heard a boy is trampled and like to die.
You look familiar.
I came last year to hustle dice, took sick with plague.
- I minister now in Lead. - How's the new racket pay?
Knowing this camp's without a minister, I come to be on call to the family.
Shall I ask elsewhere or will you tell me their name?
Bullock.
- Their boy is at Cochran's cabin. - Thank you.
- $2 a room, if you're staying over. - I may.
50 cents off for clergy.
$6 extra if they set up for dice in the room.
Avoid looking left as you exit if idolatry offends you.
Good evening, Richardson.
I will take the air very briefly.
I've left my door ajar indicating my trust for you, which you've well earned...
in days past, escorting me so reliably.
Will you stand in the hallway above...
so that you may answer if Sofia wakes and calls out?
"Your mother is just away, Sofia, very, very soon to return...
- "and all is well." - Yes, ma'am.
Perhaps without going inside, as this might frighten her.
Yes.
Fuck.