Deadwood s02e09 Episode Script

- Good morning, William.
- Good morning, Mr.
Bullock.
Are you sometimes permitted coffee? Yes, sir.
About a third of a cup? Completed with cow's milk.
As to sugar, three spoons? Is this is the morning, do you suppose, the tip of this lamp, like an Indian spear, goes into the top of my head? I don't know, sir.
Does it stand comparison with your mother's? No, sir.
Stiffened with a further lace of sugar? I mean that he would make it, sir my father would.
Do you have time to sit a bit? I suppose I might do, having chopped the kindling last evening.
Why don't you tell me about your father, William? I didn't know my brother so well as you had a chance to.
I was nine when Robert left our home.
I think you knew him longer.
You were 11.
I knew him pretty well.
What did he like doing best? Sometimes he'd sing.
Not army songs, but other kinds.
He would make Mother laugh.
He made the best duck calls of anyone.
He would send away through the wood, and he taught me comebacks, and feeder calls and hails.
Mr.
Utter and I have some camp business to see to.
William, are you a good duck caller? I suppose I'm pretty good.
I could show you, sir.
I know of some potholes over Belle Fourche way that are pretty good for ducks.
All right, sir.
Goodbye, Mr.
Bullock.
E.
B.
Farnum, Al.
Come in, E.
B! I've been prostrated by the agonies of the damned.
Judgment is upon us then.
A molar rotted through.
Distressing me also, that you are my eyes and ears and a day as eventful as yesterday should find you indisposed.
Some solace in knowing I'm missed.
You missed the advent of the fucking telegraph operator that had you steered into one of your rooms, you could have kept tabs on henceforth.
The pain nearly killed me.
As you still breathe amongst us, I shall ask you to befriend this fucking Russian.
Russian? The fucking telegraph operator, E.
B.
, is a fucking Russian.
Of course I'll befriend him.
I'm very fond of Russians.
And as the trust between you deepens, we'll be particularly interested in messages to and from Yankton.
Yeah? Sorry, E.
B.
Al, you might wanna take a gander at that.
E.
B.
Is leaving.
You won't miss him.
He's living at Merrick's and looks like the prize at a carnival.
What a delightful image to carry away with me! Swearengen's put the paperman's boat to sea with a hold full of fucking bullshit.
- He wants 5,000 more upstairs.
- Jesus Christ! Tell that fat bastard he can come down and get it hisself.
He says it's 100 if I bring it up.
Is the five you already brought him in any kind of action, Tess? It's just for him to look at while he fucks you! So, do I want my $8.
00, Tess, of the $9.
00 he pays for the fuck, and my 90 of the 100 he gives you to bring it up to him, or do I want to give fat boy the opportunity, if he has to come down to get the other five, to test his luck on the floor here amongst the games of chance? - I see.
- And don't mistake me, honey, I want to take the time to explain myself to you.
We've come to see Mose Manuel about his brother getting shot.
Fetch Mose Manuel, Tess.
Tell him Sheriff Bullock wants to pay his condolences here amongst the games of chance.
All these rumors, Sheriff, swirling around you.
How do you keep your hat on? If you'll sign right here, ma'am.
And give us a A.
G.
In the corner.
Is that abbreviation a term of art in financial transactions? Ought I acquaint myself with its meaning? That abbreviation, ma'am, is your initials.
And by asking the whereabouts of the currency I signed for receiving, do I reveal an even deeper stupidity? The coach from Denver should get in today.
And the safe we've purchased to be housed in the bank we're to build? It's inside the coach, as well.
Safe's inside the coach and the currency is inside the safe is the full picture.
- There, I did manage to be stupid.
- No, ma'am.
And you will see to the safe's temporary situation - at the Star & Bullock hardware store? - Yes, ma'am.
Gaze averted from the awkwardness such a situation generates.
Fixing my eyes instead on its pluses securing your money.
Excellent then, Mr.
Ellsworth.
May I further impose on you to convey this letter? Of course.
Mr.
Swearengen? - Please! - All right.
Is there anything else for us to discuss? Not at this time.
I'll be going then.
- Who's that? - It's Joanie Stubbs.
You're outside my place.
Keeping half-assed vigil after the fact.
Well, come in and tell me what you mean.
Nah, that's all right.
Uh, that cocksucker you spoke to me of come from here last night with a bloody fucking mug.
I gave it to him.
Good.
Anyways, he told me at rifle point you was okay.
- I am.
- I knew if he was lying you was dead, and feared finding you so in the darkness.
Scared that way since I was small.
Well, come on in, Jane.
If you was alive why fucking knock was my thinking.
Interfere with you getting to sleep - or being asleep already - Jane, it's nippy on my twat.
All right then, see you later! Do you remember you were in here yesterday? Yes, I fucking remember.
Well, why not come in again? Maybe I just fucking might.
Hey hey hey.
Nigger General's got a wild horse on his hands.
- Whoa, boy, whoa whoa.
- I pity the brute beast who pits his cunning against the Nigger General's! Whoa oh, shit! Come here, boy! We can catch the cavalry before they head south and sell him for $100! But they want their horses cut.
Where'd you catch him? I sprung a rope fence behind him in a box canyon.
He'd escaped the Sioux but his path crossed an in-season mare's.
Whoa boy, whoa boy.
Now, I can nut him, but the moon is wrong, and he's gonna take it badly.
Fuck, I ain't losing my chance at 100 waiting on no fucking moon! Okay.
Don't put your ass on me.
Hey! Hey! Come on, boy.
Come on, boy.
Wash him so he won't fester.
Hey, I got him.
All right.
Come here, boy.
Come here.
Now, if you want to take it out on someone, remember it was very dark-skinned white folks that cut on you.
They just sounded like niggers to throw you off.
This one's a "D.
" And this one's a "G.
" And what's the first one? "D"? "Sheriff Bullock declines comment on the swirl of rumors that parties in Helena with whom he has had long association are keenly interested in annexing our camp to the Montana Territories.
'The Pioneer' also learns of interests more developed and advanced on the part of Wyoming.
" You knew Cheyenne would be heard from.
Get the fuck up off them steps! Here's where it gets really fucking busy.
"And of an offer secretly proffered by certain elements in Washington D.
C.
To annex to America these our beloved Hills as a separate free-standing territory, with an eye towards eventual statehood.
" Making Deadwood fucking headquarters.
Don't spread your legs for them just yet, Johnny.
Not with Mexico to be heard from and fucking France.
There.
to satisfy the widened interest I expect today's edition may generate.
Wonderful, eh, Mr.
Blazanov? - 100 copies extra.
- Okay.
Shall we walk a bit, my American and Russian friends? Shall we? I can't leave my apparatus.
Are not all of us, Mr.
Blazanov, tethered in some sense to our labors? And at some point in our lives, is not acceptance of that tethering discovery of a path to joy? Don't know, Mr.
Merrick.
And does not the very knowing we are tethered allow us in conscience upon occasion, the rejuvenating pleasures of respite? Take your walk alone, A.
W.
, for I confess I'm mesmerized by Mr.
Blazanov's machine and hope he may explain its workings.
- Has Al seen "The Pioneer"? - I don't know.
A mystery you should seek to solve.
Good day.
Ah, good day, miss.
Uh, A.
W.
Merrick of "The Deadwood Pioneer.
" - I wish to send a telegram.
- A telegram.
Yes, of course.
Then that's Mr.
Blazanov there you seek.
How do you do? Blazanov, Cheyenne and Black Hills Telegraph Company.
- How do you do? - Miss Isringhausen.
Mr.
Farnum.
I wish this message sent.
Oh, of course.
I have a form for you to write on.
Please.
Hmm.
Mmm.
You seem uncowed by Mr.
Blazanov's apparatus.
Are you initiate in its mysteries? Fuck off.
Please.
Ah, gentlemen! Ah! Oh, Jeez! Ah, what news? This ink-stained wretch has just produced an overrun of 100 copies! Dan, don't you agree that the truth, if only a pinch, must season every falsehood, or the palate fucking rebels? And mustn't the novice chef be mindful not to ladle out his concoction by the unseasoned fucking ton, lest before he perfect his art, he lose his clientele? I'd like the ball scores a little more fucking prompt.
Excuse me.
Al Swearengen, I would not go into that office if I were you.
Were you fucking born yesterday? No, sir, I was not.
I was not born yesterday! Then may we please have a conversation as fucking adults? I think we'd better! I ain't waiting.
Give this to him.
Tell him whatever its import, he'd best not serve the sender ill.
He's in with Merrick, E.
B.
I bear news that don't want to wait.
Every rumor you floated in your article, Merrick, I believe is a living possibility for this camp, and I want you to fucking hear that as a compliment.
If so, it's the first from your lips.
Because all them possibilities called next to accomplished fact in one fucking outgush makes people smell a rat.
Yes, I suppose so.
These interests coming after us, Merrick, they're fucking rough.
They're going after our nuts.
They're hypocrite cocksuckers, and the fucking lying tactics and instruments they use to fuck people up the ass can be turned against them.
My newspaper being such an instrument.
But scale, amount, proportion, seasoning.
Drink that fucking second shot, Merrick! I like my fucking liquor.
A trait in you that gave me early hope.
I like stinking of fucking ink too.
- Give it a fucking smell, Al.
- No.
So you enjoyed writing your fucking article, huh? Worse ways to spend a night, putting shoulder to a fucking idea.
Evidently, I put mine to overmany.
Pursued down overmany avenues.
The camp's welfare was the main idea.
Al! Something strange has transpired I need you to construe.
What? - As I was befriending - Come in! As I was befriending the Russian operator, that woman tutor came to send a telegram.
We jockeyed a bit as I sought a glance at its contents, and finally, she shouted in so many words and here is the strangeness in a tutor, to get the fuck away from her Since the private part of this meeting's over, Ellsworth brung it.
- In so many words.
- Where's the tutor now? - Still with the operator, apparently waiting for an answer to her message.
Leave by the front entrance.
Walk around for a few minutes before you go back to your place.
Bring that tutor up here.
The Russian too.
It felt like something you'd want to construe.
Go away, E.
B.
All right.
Certainly.
It's the seeds from the sunflower we had in Fort Quitman, which I had in a jar which broke and mice ate most of.
So now I only have these three.
I didn't know you brought them.
Mr.
Bullock has been missing Father.
I talked to him about it this morning.
As Papa liked the sunflower, I thought Mr.
Bullock might as well.
Then shall we plant those together? Press the soil firmly on them, while I get the watering can.
Maybe we should take Mr.
Bullock lunch at his store.
An accident befell my brother is the sum of what I know, and be glad I choose to say it.
Gutshot, at Nuttall's No.
10 by his own hand? Correct.
The day you sell out the claim you two were partnered on? Correct, and fuck yourself, and don't act entitled to answers.
Why was Charlie handling the gun? Fuck yourself, and don't act entitled.
Why weren't you two watching Nuttall's bike ride? Fuck yourself.
I want to see his gun and his remains.
Where is Charlie buried? My brother is buried in a secret burial place by his own private instructions! Jesus Christ, Bullock! Put together a court or don't! - Quiet, you! - Don't hush me in my own fucking joint.
And if we take it outside, old man, expect a different outcome from the other fucking day.
You best have five of your fucking cappers then with rifles at the ready.
I got five and five behind them, indoors or out.
I too must report to the sheriff a death, a Cornishman at theft has been shot in Mr.
Hearst's claim.
- Killed? - Yes, in flight.
It's all fucking amalgamation and capital, ain't it, Wolcott? Mr.
Utter, are you a student of Hume? Smith? A disciple of Karl Marx? - Come on, Charlie.
- My employer, Mr.
Hearst, has interests and connections in Montana, Sheriff, as are imputed to you in this morning's "Pioneer.
" - You shut your fucking mouth! - Get him out of here! - Down, Charlie! - Sure got to you, didn't he, Mose? - Now he's got to get you to die! - Come on, Charlie! Mm-hm.
Let me, uh get my arm through here so I can secure my toast.
You're gonna lift me one time too fucking many! You don't go back in there if I let you go.
- I'm leaving the whole fucking camp! - Going where? A letter come to hand I need to take to Bill's missus.
Excuse me.
Excuse me.
Camp business.
He wrote just before he got killed.
I see.
And you know who fucking give it to me? How crazy life got? And money must buy these bastards any-fucking-thing they want! That cocksucker inside, Mr.
Amalgamation & Fucking Capital! Hearst's geologist gave you the letter? And God knows who he fucking bought it off of or how many hands it passed through.
It fucks me up thinking Bill's missus got to handle something that cocksucker touched.
Was it over the letter you beat him the other day? No no.
Excuse me.
No, I give my word not not to say what that was over.
I'd best go, lest Mr.
Amalgamation & Capital takes one through the fucking head.
What's the import of that expression? Do I look like I'd fucking know? Some big-shot eastern magazine reporter interviewing Bill said that was what's changing things around.
Jane.
I don't know what's gonna come of fucking Jane.
I'll keep an eye on her.
You should lock her in that cell and don't let her fucking drink! And don't fuck yourself up over Mose Manuel.
He will get hisself fleeced of what is rightfully his and what he got by murder.
He'll be judge on hisself and jury, too, just like the fucking most of us.
Coach from Denver.
Here's yours.
Good luck, Charlie! We've brought you and Mr.
Star lunch.
Thank you.
I'm up! You want the bath? I may well get to that.
- Ample here, ain't it? - Yeah.
Uh, formerly a cooperage.
My friend Eddie that bought him out said the man had been a season ahead of himself.
Well, lovely as it's fixed as a brothel, I expect you will reopen soon enough, uh restock and reopen.
You'd think so, wouldn't you? Stay awhile, Jane.
Be my guest.
Favor me and stay.
I get top fucking dollar.
New saloon in the camp, Jane? I know that's some clever opening gambit to culminate in breaking my balls.
Just saying I checked the usual spots 'cause I wanted to say goodbye before I left camp, so in case you go ahead and fucking die Goodbye, Charlie, goodbye.
Have a good fucking trip.
Shut the fuck up! 'Cause it so happens, when you return if no trees or animals killed you that you were fucking driving crazy with criticism you will find I've moved out of this shitbox so I don't have to fucking embarrass you or fucking have you hovering over me like the ugliest fucking nurse in the fucking universe.
- Into where? - Into where what? Into where are you fucking moving when you fucking move out of here? Into the fucking whorehouse down the way, which you fucking sent me to see that woman at, if needing to piss in my ear didn't crowd out every other thought or recollection in your head! How did the two of you get along? Did I just fucking say I was moving in there? Which being it's a fucking whorehouse could indicate some fucking business arrangement or some other fucking thing.
Yeah, I'm gonna be Queen Hooker.
You're a keen fucking student of the human scene, Charlie! Well, good.
Good.
Where are you going, anyway? I've made a decision not to tell you.
If you made a decision not to tell me, what did you just fucking tell me for? My decision is not to tell you my specific destination 'cause I don't think I should.
And that's that.
Well, have a safe journey to your unannounced destination and a safe fucking return.
And good luck to you with your new living arrangement.
And, uh my best, please, to Miss Stubbs.
And you not only a fucking pain in the balls, Charlie, but also the strangest fucking person I ever met.
- You'll get no argument here.
- Good! Three plus three would equal six.
Well, I sometimes put nine to amuse myself.
All right, take it up.
Vigilant to detail like his pa.
I'd think Mrs.
Garret as the bank's chief backer might wish to be present for its opening.
Well, as far as that, I got her proxy.
Yes, but wouldn't she wish to be? Perhaps she would.
I can ask.
Excuse me.
What the fuck is going on? You ask the wrong fella.
The water comes to a boil between them two fucking women, I will fucking guarantee you that much.
Have you proposed to Mrs.
Garret as you fucking swore you would? Leaving aside what I did swear or didn't, - let's say I fucking have.
- And? That's where the matter stands.
She ain't said yes or no.
How did the lady incline, fucking Ellsworth? I wouldn't guess, fucking Trixie.
Did you present yourself enthusiastic? Well, I didn't dance a jig if that's what you're asking.
Or more fucking glum-like, next to inviting refusal.
Not glum, not inviting refusal.
Straightforward, I'd call it.
- Sincere? - Yeah.
Well, what the fuck is her fucking problem then? You're a worthy enough fucking candidate, given all her fucking givens.
Warm endorsement.
She'd have to state her reservations.
Mrs.
Garret writ me a letter saying how yesterday she lost her temper with you somewhat, and judgment, she tipped she was on to you being a Pinkerton.
Oh, being bright, I expect you concluded it was me must have told her, meaning maybe I had sold over to her, and with my allegiance now in question, I expect you wired the Pinkerton big-shots, arguing you oughtn't sign any documents that might be able to prove that you, the agency and Mrs.
Garret's fucking in-laws hired me to lay at Mrs.
Garret's doorstep the murder of her husband.
And further, Mr.
Swearengen, that as to purchase of your allegiance now in question they might wish to keep the bidding open.
Bidding is open always on everyone, Miss Isringhausen.
But I expect you understand, knowing as I do, should Mrs.
Garret lose her claim, rather than operate it themselves, her cunt in-laws will sell to third-party cocksuckers inimical to the whole of my interests in this camp! To buy my allegiance against myself, in-law cunts and shit-heel operators would have to bid very high indeed.
No, more likely, Miss Isringhausen, I think you'd contemplate changing your allegiance before I would mine.
What benefit would I consider might accrue to me? I intercepted your shit-heel boss's message back to you, through the miracle of telegraph, and it answers that very question.
As I have it here before me, I will read it to you verbatim.
"Miss Isringhausen, as this will save you great pain and keep you from being killed, sign all documents Mr.
Swearengen has drawn.
Take the $5,000 and disappear.
Yours sincerely, your boss, Pinkerton Shit-Heel.
" The $5,000 alluded to in the invisible telegram, can the money be produced? Without, of course, exposing him to the contents of the document, I would want the sheriff present at my signature, and as my escort from the camp.
I bet that can be arranged.
I can't betray the confidence of messages.
Don't guarantee what you'll never do, Blazanov, not without imagining your feet stuck to the fire.
Sir I am a person whose parents have been murdered, and no other family connection and feeling, and believe in confidence of messages.
What the fuck is all that supposed to mean? I hope feet in the fire would not change me.
Congratulations, Mr.
Nuttall.
- Thank you, young man.
- How's the boneshaker? Unshook.
Which would be a fib to say about me.
I've come, Sheriff, to ask what you've learned of the shooting yesterday in my place.
Mose Manuel said his brother killed himself by accident.
Uh, by accident? Two hours before Mose sells their claim that Charlie said they'd worked theirselves lock, stock and barrel to the Hearst interests? There's no witnesses, Tom.
Hurtful, brother against brother, in a joint that bears my name the most recent hurtful event.
But might I ask William to assist me in calibrating the boneshaker's handlebars? Go ahead, William.
I don't know how to calibrate handlebars, sir.
Knowledge is overrated, William.
Diligence is what's required in the service of a willing spirit.
Oh oh oh oh easy! Easy, boy.
I use my right hand to pour.
And then Mrs.
Bullock said as it's yours, you might want to see the safe installed.
- Did she? - Yes, ma'am.
Having brought the midday meal as the safe arrived with the money inside.
And what did Mr.
Bullock say to Mrs.
Bullock? He said that might be a good idea.
With enthusiasm equaling yours as you describe the moment? I'd say on Mr.
Bullock's part, about equal enthusiasm, Mrs.
Garret, yes.
- Despite which Mrs.
Bullock persisted? - Yes.
Well, perhaps I oughtn't to disappoint her.
Earlier when I asked what else we might have to discuss, I referred to my proposal.
I took that to be your meaning at the time.
Chose not to respond.
Not to, yes, as I hadn't yet made up my mind.
- Have you now? - Nor have I now.
Would you have me decide now, before I act on Mrs.
Bullock's invitation? Do you put me to those terms? I guess there's no burning rush.
Shall we go for a walk, Sofia? Are you certain you won't join us? Thank you.
I tend to forego the midday meal.
It occurred to me, Mrs.
Garret having reason to be present in any case, that we might discuss in more formed a fashion, our plans for the children's schooling, more constructively than in some previous conversation.
- I'm delighted.
- Wonderful.
Mr.
Swearengen asked to see you, Sheriff.
Not just now.
A man tying the right rope to the frame and the other end to a thunderhead, could use the machine to tow clouds.
I wish I was taller.
Well, when your legs lengthen, I calculate you will be among the great cloud haulers of the world.
Just to ride like you did yesterday, Mr.
Nuttall.
You should have seen your face.
The Bella Union Gap was my crucible, William the fabled mud slick.
I shifted shoulders forward uh, not too much, and at a sledge-trench, ho! Swung my buttocks left, by God, turned the bars just so, thump! The buried plank, bom! And did I not come through a treat? Good afternoon.
- Good afternoon.
- Good afternoon.
Good afternoon, Mrs.
Garret.
Good afternoon, Mrs.
Bullock.
Very good wishes on a venture offering opportunity to so many in the camp.
- Thank you.
- Hope.
For taking up the education of the camp's children, my Sofia included, thank you.
As I feel I expressed inadequately when last we spoke.
- Bite of meat, Mrs.
Garret? - No, thank you.
That appears to be the safe.
William, do we dare ride double? - I do if you do.
- I do! Dauntless then! Courage high to the sticking place, and honor bright as I mount and circle and consider the best way to swoop you up.
Awaiting you here, sir.
Great.
Beautiful.
This all seems very much in order.
First depositor.
Uh, it's to witness some wrist business, Sheriff.
Al said brief but of crucial importance.
- How long will we be? - Brief, very.
And you would save me a beating.
Excuse me.
Get your head on it.
My head is on it.
Get your head on it, Tess! It's on it, Mr.
Tolliver.
It does sound like a girl with a mouthful, Mr.
Manuel.
Jesus Christ! Her tongue in her cheek can achieve the same effect.
I require a conversation with the sheriff.
Confess a crime.
You're fucking cheating me! Get the fuck out from under there! I ain't cheating you, sir.
Will you have another dealer, Mr.
Manuel? Another fucking cheat? Hot and cold's the way the cards run, sir, time immemorial.
I want it back.
Give it back to me! Give him his last wager, Leon.
We will call that one no bet.
Yes, sir, Mr.
Tolliver.
All of it.
Everything.
Now, I can't do that, Mr.
Manuel, as I believe you know.
And those rifles are aimed at your head.
Everything! Including youth, Mr.
Manuel? And why not beauty? Not credibly restored, perhaps, but as a new non-negotiable term? Would you not have, too, your brother Charlie resurrected? Would you stipulate your envy of him be purged? Surely, you insist that Charlie retain certain defects his ineffable self-deceptions, for example, which were your joy in life to rebuke, and purpose, so far as you had one.
I suppose you would see removed those qualities which caused you to love him, and the obliviousness to danger which allowed you to shed his blood.
I want to talk to Bullock! Get the fucking doc! I could have cooled that out.
On my order, Mr.
Tolliver, Lee will burn this building, mutilating you before, during or after as I specify, or when he chooses unless I forbid.
Oh, my full attention is at your disposal.
Tell Sheriff Bullock what transpired here before getting the doc.
- And now how many? - Eight.
Two portions of four.
Very good, Sofia.
May I have candy? You ask a reward, Sofia, for doing your numbers? Where would you get such an idea? "Received from Trixie" The whore.
May I sign the first receipt? Yes, please do.
Huzzah.
I'm to fetch Sheriff Bullock.
He'll be back momentarily.
All right, let's go.
- Ready, ready? - Ready.
Here we go.
Up! Up! We missed.
Trial run.
No harm done at all.
Hey, swing around, Tom! On my way! Tie off that leg rope.
Don't you want to serve your country as good as they been to you? I bet you don't even vote.
Hold that leg rope! Whoa, hey, whoa! That's between us.
Tell no one I give you that.
I'd best not, but thank you.
You keep it a secret, and you won't get into any trouble.
And if you told I helped you on the bike, that's between you and your father.
Oh shit! Hey! I think my back's broke.