02x10 - Advances, None Miraculous

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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 f*ck 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 sh*t
and stabbing on each other...

still walking around to do their business.

Maybe we could, too.

Now, the onliest v*olence we meant...

was to that stallion's prick
and then to turn an honest dollar.

- Closed!
- Well, when you re-the-f*ck-open...

note Jane Cannary
extending stay in camp...

asking you to turn out her horse.

I'll note it down.

- Short n*gg*r 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 f*cking choice.

I ain't begged, and I ain't starting.

Now, I'm gonna break your f*cking arm
if you don't let go of that g*n!

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 sh**t 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...

f*cking sitting in that chair,
distracting my f*cking thinking.

If I have to come over there,
I'll cut your f*cking throat for you...

pen yet put to paper, or not.

Half-smart f*cking c**t.

- Bring me Adams' f*cking shadow.
- f*cking 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.

sh*t!

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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 p*stol-whipping
and not learn a f*cking 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 f*cking smart with me?

'Cause I'll lift you up in the air...

and carry you before
the whole g*dd*mn camp...

like a f*cking 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 g*dd*mn b*ating...

for every f*cking 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 sh*t.

- 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, f*ck 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 f*cking 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 f*cking shrine.

No, I mean, should I knock
and let Doc know I'm there...

and then stand the f*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*cking days?

If he wants me,
he can f*cking 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 f*cking lapdog, Trixie?
- I ain't nobody's f*cking lapdog.

Hard to think even of you
coming to learn numbers...

without its being to his purpose.

Any more to that f*cking thought?

I'll have a f*cking drink.

Have the horse's piss.
It's on f*cking 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 f*cking mirage.

Let me take a turn.

Maybe I better not.

- He asked to see Hawkeye first.
- This is Adams!

I know who the f*ck it is!

So just shut the f*ck 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 m*rder 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 f*cking 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 n*gg*r...

on a sign pinned to the door.

I wish I'd have caught them leaving.

Torn-up f*cking back and all.

Wish I'd have seen them run,
the pure f*cking niggerness of it.

Here's Tom.

Take that f*cking 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 f*cking way...

to the hurt,
to the Sheriff's boy than I do...

as an innocent,
f*cking, helpful bystander!

Jungle f*cking n*gg*r*s!

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 f*cking business.

Will you salt Adams
with expertise about Helena's politics...

and Butte's,
to be taken by this c**t 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking Butte, remember?

I wonder if Clark's ever been to Helena.

Yeah, he's been to Helena.
I f*cking 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
f*cking getting somewhere.

All right.

- m*rder 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 s*ab 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, b*llet's lodged too close.

I'm still in f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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 f*ck down.

I'm the one he insulted.
I've got pride, if you f*cking don't.

I've got pride,
I just know when to f*cking swallow it.

Maybe you take it up the ass!

Jesus f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*ck
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 f*cking real?

We turn the camp toward Montana,
$50,000 ain't unreasonable.

Though anyone can bandy numbers.

What's unreasonable
is f*cking 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 k*lling.

k*ll the horse, that's on them.
I guess it's their right.

But they ain't gonna get to k*ll me.

'Cause when it comes to them cases...

you'll blow your own f*cking 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 b*at us.

"He done come out victorious
with his f*cking head blowed off."

I ain't never cheated
no white cocksucker in my life.

For that matter, no n*gg*r, 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 k*lled 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 f*cking task at hand?

Go on.

Hold this.

Now, we may not be able to find
the b*llet...

in and amongst the adipose tissue.

Or, finding it,
we mayn't be able to remove it.

Or, removing it, to avoid k*lling him.

I guess we could give it a f*cking 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.