Deadwood s03e11 Episode Script

"The Catbird Seat" Quiet.
I notice too, stupid, we’re each of us breathing in and out.
It’s Bullock, Star, Utter, and Trixie.
And Harry Manning’s outside on a sorrel.
What’s the whore doing with ‘em? I don’t know.
They ain’t fuckin’ her.
What the fuck is afoot in that hardware store? Facing the dawn united, we’re even odds for disaster, let alone in fuckin’ factions.
Knowing him for an arrant maniac, I’ll still not believe Bullock doubts me.
“Certain dangers meet to be faced only by the decent and decorous” —or idiocy of that fuckin’ ilk—is what must have captured his thinking, this fuckin’ jerk.
I’m going over there.
I am going the fuck over.
Let them fucking try to exclude me, huh? You know, saying I like you hefty don’t mean you couldn’t stand losing a couple of fuckin’ pounds.
Whatever you’d have me scrutinize must wait until certain cocksuckers have received a piece of my mind.
Of whom do you speak? Why are you walking backwards? The ink’s not yet dry, and I’d have your immediate attention to the article at the top right corner.
Stop fuckin’ moving then.
Oh, thank you.
How’s the fuckin’ ribs? Very painful.
Yeah, right there.
No rooms to let.
Only taking the air.
Well, go away.
I’m at prayer.
If that’s not a lie as I situate on the common, what claim has you piety on my deference? Fuck yourself! Fuck you, Sir! Who’d prevent expedition of one’s life’s disarray.
Telegram from Mr.
Swearengen.
A superfluous trumpeting, Mr.
Blazanov, as we three are alone.
Do I accomplish my purpose, Al, as to the shooting at Mrs.
Ellsworth? Short of accusation, do I waft the odor of complicity at Hearst’s direction… Give me the telegram.
To settle not only upon his clothing, but as it were, on the man himself, in the very fabric of his being.
This is bullshit! I’m sorry.
“23 men hired, all on our way.
” This squaw-fuckin’ idiot—proves in eight words he’s incompetent and a fuckin’ liar.
He can’t have Adams’ telegram more than four hours ago, yet he expects me to believe that in four hourshe can prudently assess the qualities of 23 hires.
And you know what “on our way” means, huh? No.
“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! Please do not strike me.
Have you finished the article, Al? That I have not wiped his expectoration from my cheek is understandable.
I’m threatened with death if I do.
That I stand immobile these hours later speaks of a flaw in my will.
Surely this is not the culminating indignity.
There remains, for example, receiving his regurgitations or swallowing his feces! Would I stand stoic…still? I am going to fuck you up.
I’m going to fuck you up.
And I’m the kind of cunt you’ll let close.
Quit it, Richardson.
Is it all right then, the article? Perfect.
Fuckin’ wafts just the way you want it to.
I’ll go ahead and publish then.
I gotta get to the fuckin’ hardware store! Jack.
Young man? At the soul’s dark hour? Name one that fuckin’ ain’t.
Mr.
Langrishe.
Yes.
We’re going in there, E.
B.
Shall I join you, as we all seem up and about? Excuse me… Gentlemen.
Waiting for the Sheriff.
We campaign in Sturgis.
A meeting, I gather, of the upper fucking crust exclusively.
No hoi polloi need apply.
I ought to have called you.
What events in the camp would argue I be called back from Sturgis is what we are trying to decide.
It’s not a meeting at all, per se.
Now I don’t feel so horribly injured.
The meeting per se is what he’ll not be kept from.
Jack Langrishe.
He’s all right.
You showed perfect judgment, Sir.
I’d keep from the camp that your janissaries have arrived.
We’ll quarter at your find.
Will you drink? No, thanks you.
I will.
Shall we leave it being generally vigilant? Under very specific circumstances we’ll wire you to make early return.
Yes.
That’s exactly it.
And those would be? Any further shooting out of the ordinary.
Like at Mrs.
Ellsworth, definitely.
Hearst-initiated horseshit of any sort.
Intimidation or the like.
If it looks to eventuate in immediate violence.
Otherwise why try even to make it to Sturgis for the speeches? Hearst-initiated bullshit is inevitable is his point.
Surely, Sir, you leave in the certain knowledge that you are the camp’s irreplaceable man.
He don’t need no further encouragement in that way of thinking.
Comes to sending a wire, I put that Russian ill at ease.
Oh, I do all right with him.
My meetings—I provide refreshments.
You were shown the tent of the man I want killed first.
Looked fine, how he wants to work it.
I’m leaving.
Come in.
It’s too much.
He’s too cruel.
Come in.
Brazenly sends the other packing, to brazenly install her replacement in the theater.
How was he brazen with the one who left? No one with eyes could fail to recognize their connection.
And now brazenly— Us recognizing his connection to the one who left does not mean he was brazen.
Fine.
Fine then.
I just came to say goodbye.
Must I agree he is brazen for you to not leave the troupe? He has no respect for art.
Claudia.
He hates me.
No.
I was well-received in Denver.
Yeah, very well received.
I could have stayed.
I could have let you all go on.
I think you were approached by Millerick.
I was.
Go to sleep, Claudia.
No coaches now anyhow.
Did he suspect Millerick approached me? He doesn’t miss much.
He misses everything.
I juggled at amateur night.
And what are you doing now? Praying for my loved ones.
How nice.
Lucky them.
Would my conversating with her or lingering after supper have disrupted the little one’s routine on a day that had been disrupted previous? Yes.
Already she’d seen a series of people taking up watch to protect that schoolhouse, and how many questions must have occurred to her —because that is a bright child—“What is transpiring that we need guarding from?” And what memories must that have brought back of her own dear family murdered in a sudden fake Indian depredation by shit-heel fuckin’ road agents.
Not solely how would I like to be passing the evening, the like.
When I’ve left, have I given the mother more calming down to do before she gets the child asleep? Them’s the sort of things is what you have to consider.
Fuck, must you hover, fucking Merrick? I admit to wondering, Al, if you have any further impression of my article.
Didn’t I tell you how well it wafted? If on second reading— Merrick, it’s a good article.
It’ll no doubt irritate him, fucking Hearst, but I’m wakeful wondering who he’s likely to shoot at next, so with regard to that I’ve gave your article all the thought I need to.
Who do you think he might shoot at? I have no fucking idea, Merrick.
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! Oh, which leaves me the solace of contemplating the journeying hither of the intrepid fucking Hawkeye and his 23 fucking reprobates to even the odds in the coming combat.
Didn’t tell you that, did I, Adams? Hawkeye’s wire 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! Couldn’t let him read his fucking paper.
I won’t be lingering once we’ve finished.
If you want to stay and politic, you’ll have to ride back alone.
I hate what happened in your home.
It’s all right.
Your wife good enough to ask me in for breakfast.
I’m working on my presentation.
That lovely woman putting her hand behind her for support when I feared she might fall to the floor.
Would you shut up about it? And then, even if only briefly, to have failed to acknowledge it had been my wind, I’d— What’s your purpose here? What do you mean? There’s no Sioux around here.
Shall I go find some, ask ‘em to join us? I’m saying there’s no Fort and there’s no Sioux.
Why would they have you bivouacked? Seems like you got me confused for a general.
Don’t be grazing by the windows.
Come in and listen or stay the fuck out of sight.
I guess you got yourself mistaken for a general.
He wants to know what we’re here for.
We’re here for the election, maybe gonna exercise the franchise.
Time for us to speak now, Sheriff.
Have they told you yet who you’re voting for? Not yet.
Sheriff, we— Shut up, Harry.
Mr.
Utter! Mr.
— The key got stuck.
Ready for fucking Freddie? Hearst let his dogs loose.
Davey, get to the Russian.
Tell him to wire Sturgis.
Say to wire Bullock as agreed, huh? I want my child.
I’ll—I’ll go get her now.
Mr.
Ellsworth—Mr.
Ellsworth’s been shot.
Mr.
Ellsworth’s been killed.
I want my child! She’ll be here with you before you know it, Mrs.
Ellsworth.
Oh, what did I do to him? We’ll go upstairs, get you a drink.
What did I do to that poor man? You didn’t fucking shoot him.
And don’t be going off into fucking hysterics, huh? Collect your child.
Utter will be back with her here any minute.
Come on.
I’m going to make her breakfast.
Pinchbeck motherfucker.
My goodness! Bare-breasted.
My word.
Who has commissioned such behavior? Who summons you with such power to do his will? Mr.
Hearst? Mr.
Hearst? Did someone interrupt your rendez-vous? Did someone else attack him? Cover those things.
Give me your fucking poot-butt gun.
Why? Fucking shoot me with it if you don’t.
What’s going on, Trixie? Ellsworth’s murdered, and I fucking shot Hearst, and I don’t think I killed him! Shoot me or he’ll do for all of us.
Shoot me! Shoot me! Don’t you fucking take me anywhere! Shut up! Stand the fuck up! I piss hard-stole money away to gussy you fucking cunts up.
Starchy bullshit.
And fucking pretend there’s a difference between fat ass snatch and fat ass snatch in a fucking petticoat! Come on, Mr.
T.
Where are we going, you rummy-faced piece of shit?! I’m just saying— Just saying what? What were you just saying? I don’t know, Sir.
Weren’t you being this fat twat’s gallant? Ain’t Con the nuts, fatso? Ain’t it great to have a fucking beau? I’m Seth Bullock.
In Montana, I had a hardware bidness with my partner Sol Star, and we do the same in Deadwood, which we came to in ’76.
I was Marshal and territorial delegate in Montana, and I’m Health Commissioner and Sheriff where we are now.
With the hills now part of the new territory, I run for Sheriff of the new organized county.
If elected, my intention’s to look to the good and safety of people hereabouts.
I will venture my life that law-abiding persons will be secure in their rights and their property.
I have to go.
What is it, Bullock? What happened? Don’t you know? Have they just got you handling the votes? The voting exclusively.
He’s dead.
Dead! And at my hands! Or the next thing to it.
Who? Hearst! He’s dead? I think.
Boss! Excuse me.
The gimp’s making breakfast for you, if you ain’t ate yet.
Jewel.
Well, where was he hit? I don’t know.
Trixie shot him.
Boss! Trixie said she killed him? E.
B.
said Trixie killed Hearst! You saw him dead? No.
How bad was he hurt? I’m not sure.
Well, how bad did Trixie say he was hurt? If he wasn’t hurt, wouldn’t I have seen him pursue her? What you mean is she might not have fucking shot him at all! Four steps removed no fucking closer.
Boss.
Or w-wouldn’t he have? Wouldn’t he have what? Shut up, E.
B.
I’m a dead man.
You ain’t gonna be alone.
I’ve made this fucking walk before.
All right.
Stay here till I get him.
Then you get out! Get out with your hovering and fucking clucking! Before hell breaks fucking loose.
Trixie’s here, in back.
Your idea, her coming here? My fucking idea, after she did what she did.
Was it your idea to have her do that? All right.
Loopy fucking cunt.
Mother’s upstairs.
Get out of the fucking way, Jewel.
Here, let me take it up.
No, you fucking won’t.
Oh for Christ’s sake.
Mr.
Utter’s come with the child.
Getting another plate.
Mr.
Utter said only that Sofia’s mother had requested her at the Gem.
Rely that something fucked has transpired… With Mose God knows where, and me likely needed in camp.
Uh, go ahead, Jane.
I’ll stay with Mrs.
Bullock.
Trouble jumps off, ring the bell.
That’ll bring me fucking running.
All right.
Or I guess maybe I’ll just stay instead.
I suppose there’s some connection between his condition and yours.
That bare-breasted woman who shot me seemed to think there ought to be.
Shit! Go ahead, knowing I’d appreciate less enthusiasm.
Through the years, that fellow’s path and mine crossed several times.
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.
I expect my attacker was a bawd connected somehow to the man in back before he married so luckily.
Likely, she fell victim as he did to imagining me responsible for the change in her situation.
God damn it! Often, because our interests are extensive, people like me are believed the authors of events which may benefit our holdings, when our connection in fact is incidental.
God damn it! I have some calls to make.
Will your gunmen let me pass? Of course.
Don’t you want to dress the wound? My name is Joseanne.
Mr.
Langrishe was so generous to say he would install me today in the theater.
Sit down, dear.
Oh! We are waiting for him.
One of our chief occupations.
Mr.
Farnum! Ah, good day, Sir.
Mr.
Farnum, a little while ago I heard what I took for a gunshot —and impression, I remark, not on the grounds of its uniqueness, but for the shot having seemed to issue from so near to my recumbent ear… You are not mistaken, Sir.
The hallway, that is to say, separated from where I rested only by a wall whose thinness you’ve no doubt had others before me deplore.
The walls do thicken in our west wing.
I’ll have a quick look for vacancies.
Hearst shot, the wound, alas, not mortal.
“No help,” as we say at the tables.
Booth…never went you better.
Anon anon, Sir.
Anon anon.
God damn it, Richardson.
You’re too ugly to be sneaking up on fucking people.
From Mrs.
Marchbanks.
We got all the fucking food we need.
Who the fuck is Mrs.
Marchbanks anyway? It’s Aunt Lou.
I guess I’d know her for Mrs.
Marchbanks if she took time to introduce herself.
Tell the arrogant nigger thanks.
No hurry returning the basket.
Tell her my fucking name’s Miss Caulfield… I think.
The terms come clear.
If she’d keep her property here, she’ll leave, having first hired as many as Hearst has, and who can kill as well as his do and ain’t disadvantaged too, to keep Hearst from killing her, which—by the shots yesterday and Ellsworth butchered today— means her to understand Hearst will not cease endeavoring to do.
But if she’d herself stay in camp, she must sell her property to him.
A very pithy rendering.
I want to feel his beard.
Mr.
Ellsworth’s with God now, Sofia.
I want to feel his beard so I can pray that he’s saying goodbye to me.
Duck duck duck duck duck.
Goose! Go, James, go! Go, James, go! Go, James, go! Go, James! Aww! Outflanked by a boy half my size.
Next time I’ll get you, James.
Ellsworth’s murdered, head-shot at the Garret find.
Your partner’s sweetheart put one in Hearst’s shoulder.
Where’s Mrs.
Ellsworth? Above with the child.
With the child.
I fucking heard ya.
He once had something to do with her.
Reason for his making the case she sell, keep her here for another swing.
Reason ain’t his long suit.
Bullet, removed uneventfully.
Let’s pray he avoids infection.
What did Hearst say of the shooting? That some bawd still connected to Ellsworth musta blamed him for the murder.
Wrong-headed and fallen in the bargain.
Would you find pretext to let the mother know I’m here? Bullock’s with her.
Shall I shout out and ask it of him? Very much in your line, this type thing? Yes.
Not to my taste at all.
Time’s past, one’s fled.
Doc’s here.
Someone fell.
Will you excuse me for a moment, Darling? I want to see Mr.
Ellsworth.
Excuse me.
Are you certain that she saw her family dead? Yes.
I certainly assume she did.
The man I once was, Al, was not formidable, and I am but his shadow now.
And yet I’d be put to use.
A decoy, perhaps.
A weight to drop on villains from above.
As I heard the account, the child was found inside a hollowed-out tree trunk some distance from the others.
Having crawled from the carnage and hidden herself, I’d always assumed.
See, I suppose, rather than Sofia crawling unseen from the carnage, the possibility might exist that the family hid her in the tree trunk and then fled that distance before the murderers fell upon them.
For the child to have been found having been savaged by wolves, those hours later by strangers, and then taken away having never seen her family again, living or dead… I can fix that.
Slainte.
Thought you was near pitching a tent and setting up housekeeping over on that first step.
You sound like a pig my cousin run off with.
Get another? If that cocksucker hadn’t shareholders, you could murder him while you adjusted his back.
Serpent’s teeth—shareholders.
10,000 would rise to replace him.
All right, darling.
All right.
Monitor my thinking, Jack.
Oh, no warrant as to competence.
Had Hearst wanted this woman killed, she’d be dead already.
Agree.
The husband’s murdered to coerce her to sell.
For the moment, the child’s safe too, huh? Pending the mother’s decision—agree.
Safe then to let ‘em go, huh? I would, Sir.
Yes.
Gonna take Mrs.
Ellsworth home.
As you think best.
I wish to thank you again, Mr.
Swearengen.
We are all very grateful.
Trixie’s with Star at his place.
No on knows but Shaunessey, who lives in fucking terror of me, huh? Passages between their places only Shanessey knows.
Heartfelt condolences, Madam.
I get to see Mr.
Ellsworth tomorrow.
Very good, young lady.
God bless.
You take care of them, Bullock.
Leave the other to me, huh? Oh, Bullock, you might want to stand guard outside her place.
I’ll take Charlie as backup.
No no, Hearst ain’t gonna be coming for her.
But to bring the matter home as grave, it’d make a case for her selling her claim.
Not to jeopardize the tranquility of your own hearth.
Thank you for looking to them.
Nimbleness, Lad, dexterity.
I’d prefer Hearst’s advantage at arms.
True, true.
The world is less than perfect.
The camp is galvanized.
People scurry about.
They’ve tasks to perform.
They feel important.
I oughtn’t to work in these places.
I was not born to crush my own kind.
Right with you, Wu.
In there.
In there.
First door.
Yeah, in there.
When he leaves, them that ain’t lining this fucking hallway like he’s the tallest, best-looking white man ever got fucking lucky, better prepare for a fucking beating.
Wu—Custer City—brings back all his Chinks the fuck back to Deadwood.
Wu…back Deadwood? Brings all his Chinks back, huh? Wu, Custer City, back Deadwood! Ding n amah gai.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday! I am sorry, Wu.
I’m sorry I made you wait.
But I want you to bring them now.
While you’re about your journey, I’ll be trying to conceive some practical use for your countrymen’s arrival besides seeming to swell our ranks.
Oh, we’ll give ‘em guns, yeah.
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.
Guns.
Chung Kuo.
Wu, Custer City, back Deadwood.
Shut the fuck up, Wu.
Heng Dai.
Heng Dai.
Heng Dai, fucking Wu.
Big man.
Wu—big man.
Rouse him to spend on pussy, or rob the son of a bitch.
Transcripts : Cristi Brockway