Ooh! Jesus Christ!
What’s wrong?
What’s wrong? It fuckin’ hurts, Doc.
What do you think’s wrong?
As the particular mix of stupidity and self-pity that moved you is of no interest to me,
I will not put to you the question of why you would abrade a healing wound.
I was examining myself for fuckin’ pus.
Bullshit. I have a patient whose shattered foot is going gangrenous.
I’ll likely amputate. He’s a salesman.
His livelihood depends on walking.
I’ll return tomorrow. If I see any further evidence of self-mutilation, that will be the last day I treat you.
One wonders, Sir, if last evening installed in your hostel a woman of exotic appearance,
not perhaps gypsy by extraction.
What would your business with her be if she had?
To hear my fortune told.
There’ll be none of that on these premises.
Nor were those my true intentions. Your query is impertinent.
Is the lady here?
2-C.
As your faith must proscribe receiving bribes, credit the five toward her stay.
Thanks so much, Aunt Lou.
All right.
You know I’ll notify you first word from the freight office about your boys remains.
All right.
There’s a stout woman, the Countess Berman, fires and hires for the troupe.
You will meet her at the theater should you appear and apply.
The devout Shaunnesey has a week in advance to your account.
Take it back from him. I won’t take money from you.
Are you not being quite absurd, in the self-serving way of your sex?
You come here penniless, a supplicant.
For learning.
Well well well…and to learn, must you not live?
And how will you do so amidst the thoroughfare’s depravities?
Let me stay in the theater.
At a minimum, for the career to which you aspire you show the requisite presumption.
No small part, the hotel’s amelioration under your regime. The nigger cook, no small part.
I heard you.
Hmm, a tenant when last I was resident in the previous regime.
I thought the evening went well.
Wonderful.
Very much to our purposes—the idea of us in the camp.
And what about that beautiful harem dance by that darling little dark-haired prostitute?
My God.
Make yourself fuckin’ small, Mrs. Ellsworth!
My goodness. I believe someone’s shooting at the former tenant.
Keep your fuckin’ head down!
Get to the fuckin’ schoolhouse!
Particular attention to the foundling and send fuckin’ Trixie over here!
Oh, just some nonsense among the ordinaries, Sir.
Getting Mrs. Ellsworth under cover.
Excess of fuckin’ caution, but you yourself, Sir, are absolutely safe!
Absolutely safe, Sir.
Wire Bullock in Sturgis. “Return’s urgently required.”
In fuckin’ generalities only, otherwise that maniac’ll come back shooting.
No, not that way. Don’t want that cocksucker knowing nothing of our business.
Upstairs and fuckin’ around you’ll find the fuckin’ telegraph. Johnny.
Oughtn’t someone look out for who fired?
Richardson, look into who fired.
What was it?
The business of others.
Shall we review the biddin’ in my fuckin’ office?
Oh, I need to take off my corset.
And no one objects to that here.
Easily as it could have been some hooplehead, not knowing who or what he was shooting at,
it’s likely prudent to credit you as the target.
Yes.
If I’d been aimed at, of course…
dozens of authors would need be considered.
Yes.
So I know someone’s in there, vary your replies, such as, “Yes…and I’d be one of them.”
That wouldn’t be very grateful of me.
It’s horrible being shot at. Never gets no better.
Yeah.
What the fuck?
Assuming she ain’t got the smell of gunpowder on her fingers, I’m leaving you to her.
Thank you, Mr. Swearengen.
Who the fuck shot at her?
Who the fuck knows? Hearst? Her first husband’s family?
They both work with the fuckin’ Pinkertons.
Maybe they’re now allied.
Someone should see to the child as her fuckin’ heir.
Bein’ looked to. Just you fuckin’ look after that one till matters clarify.
Don’t think of tossing the place. Every fuckin’ valuable’s inventoried.
Get Tom Nuttall!
Cheyenne’s off. God damn it! Second-rate deployment, Dan.
Sending you off for reinforcements to come back to a camp in ruins.
I’ll pack, unpack, repack.
Whoever you intended to fuck, send monies to bring her here.
Who I intended to fuck won’t ride a stagecoach.
Makes her puke.
Toast and eggs or toast and bacon—she can choose or she can mix ‘em, whatever she wants.
Why the fuck are you telling me?
Every step a fuckin’ adventure.
Collect fuckin’ Ellsworth. Nothing of her being shot at.
What am I to say I’m collecting him for?
Just knock him out and bring him im.
Do you want to close?
No, I don’t wanna close.
Fuckin’ Hearst’s to see not one single sign on any fuckin’ front that he’s had half a cunt hair’s effect on any of the comings and goings in this camp.
Telegram’s sent to the Sheriff.
Blazanov’s helping Merrick dress.
Why the fuck would you say that to me?
Merrick—that was beat up yesterday—is being helped to dress by Blazanov.
Now Blazanov sent the telegram to the Sheriff, so’s Merrick could come do his part.
All right.
Should I relieve Adams at the schoolhouse?
Please.
Let Adams come back here, be available for whatever nefarious fuckin’ carryings-on you assign him,
‘cause I do not take orders from you.
Before she eats, she somersaults and don’t want no one to see.
In fact, I rarely eat before noon.
Well, maybe you just ain’t found what you like to eat yet.
Get out, Jewel.
Did you ever have bacon?
I very well might.
Goodbye, Jewel.
Thank you!
That was so considerate of her.
Fascinated by you.
If you saw who it was and want to say, I wouldn’t have to tell Al.
I didn’t see.
And I’m very grateful to be under Mr. Swearengen’s protection.
Yeah, he’s a prince.
In the Sheriff’s absence, I mean.
Good a place as any for you to be
…in the Sheriff’s absence.
She somersaulted and et and says her entire fuckin’ dietary outlook has changed.
What plate did she et from?
She et from them fuckin’ both.
What a world. A woman in innocent transit.
A wayward shot from some watering hole, do you suppose, prompted by a surfeit or spirits, exuberant punctuations of some sort?
Do you believe anything you say?
I am hypothesizing.
And have you some private hypothesis as to my possible role?
In the shooting at Mrs. Ellsworth?
In the rising of the sun.
I would hypothesize as to the latter possibility, Sir, before imagining you involved with the first.
Oh come, Jarry. My holdings butt up against hers.
I value efficiencies and economies of consolidation.
Haven’t I reason to nudge her toward a sale?
Men of a certain caliber cannot allow fastidious morality to distract them from the exigencies of commerce,
can they, Mr. Hearst?
And did you heave up your responsibilities upon broad and reconciled shoulders?
No.
Perhaps then, rather, at this moment you are Socrates to my Alcibiades, taken it upon yourself to edify me.
Are you saying you want to fuck me?
What?
Well, you keep calling yourself Alcibiades to my Socrates.
Are you proposing some sort of homosexual connection between us?
I forgot that part of the story.
Wait.
But, if I were courting you, Mr. Hearst,
I claim no allure of my own, suggesting only the mutuality of our interests concerning the upcoming elections grants my suit some small virtue.
As you gaze upon me, Sir,recall that some unions of convenience may outlast those conceived in passion.
Get up off your knees.
Of course.
Elections cannot inconvenience me. They ratify my will or I neuter them.
Compelling perspective.
Time to go back to Yankton.
For me? Yes.
Locked.
The troops in Sturgis will await your instructions.
Thank you very much.
“I like winter when snow and ice cover the ground.”
“I like winter when snow and ice cover…
What are you doing here?
Too afraid.
If you were too afraid, you wouldn’t be here.
Too afraid to explain.
He’s got a note pinned to him, Al.
Take it off him. Then stick him in the eye with the fucking pin.
He don’t mean it.
Tell him, “Nothing.”
I’ll just keep quiet.
No. Tell E.B, “Nothing’s going on, “ and then tell him “If I wanted to tell you anything, I’d have told you.
Don’t send the imbecile over with no more notes.”
I can’t remember all that.
Can you remember, “Nothing’s going on”?
Yes. Tell him that then.
Thank you.
The Mrs. Ellsworth was shot at?
Got her upstairs. I figured...we’d hunker down till matters clarify.
Lovely.
What did the geek say walking past you?
“The girls in here are pretty.”
The fool husband ought soon appear.
Some small number to deal with his dudgeon, main force in reserve for Bullock.
Okay.
How did sentiment incline in this joint when Bullock and Harry spoke last?
Glad when they was finished.
As to who had the upper hand?
Fuckin’ cross-legged pose your man struck, Tom, may have swayed the diarrhea faction.
Creek was having its way with Harry.
The fuck was the logic when he sent that giant Captain to fight you?
Get me killed.
It wasn’t to get you killed.
His man finally kills you after a more or less equal fight?
I gotta go reassure my Jew.
Out of boredom’s why he put that fight together.
Same with this too. Fucking shots at her fore and aft.
Wants to see he’s made people afraid, so he knows he’s a fucking big shot.
Exactly fucking correct, Tom.
If this was overture to an onslaught, He’s have let them pistoleros loose by now to start the actual killing.
That’s the keenest of fucking assessments.
Mightn’t that argue for my trip to Cheyenne?
He ain’t waiting no fucking week, Dan.
I leave here full of confidence knowing you’re all thinking in concert.
But I’d as soon not die fighting 25 against four
—you being my missing fifth, the equal of 10 of Hearst’s fucking mercenaries,
and Bullock, Who’s no fucking slouch either, if he ever gets the fuck back, bringing the odds closer to even.
Well, her Jew’s got sand if you tell him where to point the gun.
I’d trust a fucking wire to Cheyenne if I knew someone to send it to.
Far as that, there’s Hawkeye.
You were told never to say his name.
Well, now I did. And I’d trust him to hire the guns.
And the hiring to take place where?
Up that squaw’s cunt he’s fucking?
Squaw’s in Lead, not Cheyenne.
Did he take vows of abstinence in Cheyenne?
Do they let him have wires in his monastery?
I’d trust Hawkeye—once he learned the situation—to hire the guns without stealing,
to herd ‘em back here to help us out, not stopping to get laid in Lead.
Can Hawkeye read?
He can, and I can put my words such in the wire,
he’ll take my meaning and prying cocksuckers won’t.
Go get the fucking Russian, send the fucking wire.
Out the front or by the stairs?
By the stairs, by the fucking stairs.
We want his piss pot’s play hours occupied by confusion and grievance.
We want him sitting, sulking like a three-year-old whose toys won’t do his biddin’.
I had a fucking Jack-in-th-box.
I’d turn and turn and turn that fucking handle, and the Jack, he’d never jump.
If she’d complete her walk to the bank…
she’d confound this motherless cunt.
Tea for two, Jewel, on a fucking tray!
When did you start giving that cocksucker Swearengen a “by your leave” and “if you fucking say so”?
Jane.
All’s I asked, Jane, did he know you was relieving me?
Maybe Swearengen’s coordinating strategy
‘cause the Sheriff being gone campaigning his Deputy didn’t jump to take charge.
We just thought we could release you to other responsibilities, Mr. Utter.
And I could run get you if they headed up.
Assuming the unlikely need.
All right.
That’s how you have to fuckin’ deal with him.
Cocksucker.
How you doing, Ellsworth?
What the fuck did you hit me for?
You realize that was me?
You think I’m asking out of general suspicion?
All right, I’ll, uh—I’ll tell you what happened, fill you in on the full fucking circumstance.
Now, uh… Mrs. Ellsworth is completely safe.
Calm down or I will hit you over the fucking head again,
Maybe use some more of them spirits under your Goddamn nose.
What happened?
Well…there was some completely-no-fucking-damage-done gunfire taken at Mrs. Ellsworth fore and aft.
But she—she couldn’t be no better.
I’ll kill that cocksucker.
You get out of my way or I’ll kill you fucking first.
Put up a struggle, Ellsworth—it’s stupid Goddamn thinking.
Why would they take shots at Mrs. Ellsworth fore and aft when they could have just blowed her fucking head off?
Goddamn it!
Calm down and think about it!
They took shots at her fore and aft so that you would come running,
so they could do to you what they could have done to her but they didn’t.
And to Bullock too, maybe.
So do you see how Goddamn irresponsible it would have been of me to allow you full fucking conscious movement?
Do you see? Now…
I’m gonna cut loose them throttles, but you best not make me regret it.
Them shots were meant for maybe rethinking your tenure here, huh?
Maybe too, in the aftermath, the shots’ author’d designed Mr. Ellsworth would be moved to take steps,
or Sheriff Bullock would, that’d justify a violent answer.
The author being Mr. Hearst.
Him, or him having made cause with your first husband’s family,
Pinkertons presiding over the vows.
We’ve wired Bullock to counsel restraint.
We’ve Ellsworth trussed up downstairs.
Little in the past commends me to your trust.
I’d ask you, accepting the premise that you were bait, not quarry—complete your walk to the bank.
Get that fucking angler fulminating, tangling his fucking tackle and the fucking like.
Mr. Swearengen.
I’m sorry.
I’m quite all right.
I thank God for it.
And I’d be glad to keep you company the rest of your day.
I’d be glad if you’d join me at the bank in a few minutes’ time,
having made my way to the bank alone.
Why in heaven’s name would you want to do that?
To demonstrate his tactics failure and to bid defiance to him who shot at me.
I got an idea who had you shot at.
Wouldn’t mind killing him, even if I’m wrong.
If the shots meant not to harm me but to provoke certain others,
wouldn’t attempting that be playing into our adversary’s strategy?
If it ends with one between Hearst’s eyes,
let me play to his strategy and welcome.
I hope instead you’d have dinner tonight with Sofia and me,
all of us having passed the interval uneventfully.
In any case, please accede to my walking to the bank alone.
I’d not have you step one more foot forward, Ellsworth.
As I fucking understand.
For Mr. Swearengen.
Last man took a note for you to Swearengen wound up dead.
The man you refer to knew the note he bore might bring about that outcome.
This note’s import’s more innocuous.
Will it make you less afraid to read it?
I ain’t afraid. I guess I made a poor joke.
You do read.
Sure, sure I do.
Read the note then.
It’s good.
Out loud, so I know you can.
I made a poor joke—
Out loud, to prove you are lettered and not a liar unfit for my employ!
“Thanks from all for your rescue of Mrs. Ellsworth.
Who could have shot at her?
Do you wish her guarded at the bank with the Sheriff away?
I saw you let her walk alone. Answer via bearer.”
You don’t read easily, do you?
Why don’t you come to my office while I compose my reply?
I’d have asked Jewel ask her, if I thought to ask, if I’d foreseen in time.
You’d have only put Jewel in a position—
She talks to Trixie, the bank woman. Why wouldn’t she talk to us?
‘Cause she has something to say to Trixie. We’d just be asking conversation that she wouldn’t know where to begin with.
Philadelphia’s where she’s from. ‘S what we could’ve had as a subject.
Got beautiful gracious manners there.
Philadelphia, its many gracious attractions.
Her dress, her comportment.
She’d have fucking talked to us.
May we speak?
You stand in the hallway addressing me in my room.
Yes.
The girl who danced last evening, vagabond sort, hodgepodge costume—
I know who you mean.
She’ll be staying in the theater, possibly joining the troupe.
Knowing precious little at all events, of the course now charting I know absolutely nothing at all.
You seem to know what it means for us.
Knowing you, I suppose I do, swearing I’ve laid no carnal hand to her.
What does installing her accomplish acknowledging me could not?
Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.
That I’m old, that I’ve lost my belly for sham.
Every drawing I made in this sketchbook, every one I’ve dreamed of painting from,
near a home where we’d live.
Say at least I never asked it of you.
You’d have me say that on the day you ask it of someone else?
Shall I have these?
No.
Paint every fucking one, Mary.
How well do you know the other guy?
Who would that be?
That my man Dority killed—the Captain.
We served in the 69th in New York.
Was that a mick regiment?
What were you doing?
Cutting throats.
I was asking whose flag you were under.
The famous cocksuckers brigade.
Is that so?
Command of the all-whore detachment.
Distress you when my man downed your friend?
Let me tell you something, Mr. Swearengen:
You don’t scare me, and you don’t fucking know what happened with the 69th New York.
I will tell you this: I didn’t like what happened to Joe Turner.
Mr. Hearst came to him and said,
“Make it last, even if you gain the upper hand and can kill him.”
And I think that was halfway selfish of Mr. Hearst, whereas Joe could have killed your man and didn’t,
and look how it wound up.
But that’s as much as I feel like saying, and that’s neither here nor fucking there.
Fair enough.
All right then.
All right. But I’ll tell you this:
You don’t seem halfway like such a halfway bad fucking person.
So should I tell Mr. Hearst that there’s no messa—
So you’d shoot at a fucking woman?
Beat that poor newspaper bastard?
Scare that Chinese with your fucking horses?
How many ribs you think you broke?
Aw, I feel like I broke two or three ribs.
I’m talking about that newspaperman’s ribs, you fucking cunt.
I prayed it would pass! But it’s a constant fucking sore spot and throb.
Uh…”you are a constant vision before me, you and your fabulous bosoms.
I beg you, release your man stallion from his he-stable for another gallop round the ring.”
Not today, Con.
Tomorrow?
Come back tomorrow.
Any particular time?
Late in the day.
Perfect! We’ll be waiting.
Listen to me, listen to me.
And I’ll tell you one fucking thing. Do you hear me?
I don’t hear nothing.
I’m telling you that I’m gonna tell you one fucking thing.
All right.
Do you hear me?
What the fuck? I’m not fucking deaf.
I want…
I want to know that I’m gonna be fucking heard,
that what I have to fucking say will matter, will have some result.
‘Cause if not…then what’s the fucking point?
All right…then I’m not gonna say fucking anything.
What do you think of that?
He sent for more guns.
He wired for more Pinkertons.
They’re on the way, and I told you that.
If he finds out I told you—
Don’t worry.
You won’t tell him?
You might want to close the fucking door.
Who the fuck are you?
Janine, that’s Sara’s friend from Cincinnati.
Hmm. That’s a stupid name for a whore.
Makes the tricks feel like they’re stammerers.
Ja-ni-ni-nine-nine-nine, like they’re in the fucking alps.
You can call me whatever you want.
Well, let’s call you stupid until we can think of something better.
You miss Cincinnati, Janine-nine-nine-nine-nine?
Are you afraid of fucking Deadwood?
Do you miss your Mom and Dad? Do you have one of each?
Are they above ground, do you know?
Ohh…Do I see the beginnings of a tear in the corner of your left eye?
I’m all right.
For the purposes of our discussion.
As much as anyone cares, is my meaning.
All right, stupid.
Con’ll advance you $5 against your first evening’s fucking.
Don’t do no dope with Leon. Welcome to the Bella Union.
Close the fucking door, stupid!
He’s got 25 more guns coming, 25 Pinkertons.
When they get here, he’s gonna move on the camp.
Before the elections?
25 Pinkertons already.
He had 25 on the way, and 100 at his operation.
Before or after the elections?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
Please don’t hurt me. It’s all I fucking know.
Come on, come on. Don’t give up hope.
Passing a little wind.
Yes.
Yes, come in.
Have you enjoyed yourself today, Farnum?
For reasons I find elusive, the day has quite displeased me.
What will help you find a name for your feelings?
Shall we cut open your belly for you to wrap your guts around a pole?
You seem distraught.
I am not! I await an outcome!
And the readying for it wearies me.
Oh, Dear.
Have you smelt human flesh on the spit?
How would I have?
I know the smell.
You have been to and fro in the world.
It pleased me to find out.
Well then, fine.
Don’t you want to wipe that off?
No?
You would regret my coming back and finding that you had cleaned your face.
I understand.
Dan, Johnny.
He doesn’t want you to dirty your hands.
All that shouting —“You’re a cunt for hire to shoot at women” and the like—
just trying to frighten you a little, encouraging you to chat.
Who amongst us hasn’t wanted to shoot at women once or twice, hmm?
Anything you want to say else before I let you rest, knowing I don’t sit upon you in judgement?
Did he come to you by a different path, Mr. Hearst?
Did he somehow circumnavigate to bring my reply to you without me seeing?
What are you talking about?
Your man went out the back of my fucking place,
and I’ve been hoping against hope for reasons beyond my understanding
that it was to return to you unseen by me.
He has not returned.
Jesus Christ, maybe he was telling the truth— that he was lighting out for fucking Bismarck.
Jesus Christ Almighty!
Did you and he have some kind of misunderstanding, Sir,
that he took for pretext the letter’s delivery to make his fucking escape?
Well, then I say, Mr. Hearst, you are well the fuck rid of that cocksucker,
that he’d show so little loyalty or sense of responsibility to the delivery of communications.
Jesus Christ Almighty, were do we find good help?
Oh, and in reply to your letter, Sir,
my opinion only, she don’t need no escort or guarding,
but it’s the kind of generous inquiry I’d expect you to make.
How’s your back, Mr. Hearst?
How’s the fucking back there, Pal?
Wu.
Longest a rug’s lasted so far.
What’s going on, Charlie?
Some fucking day.
It was a good day.
I only wish some of Hearst’s pistoleros had come to test our mettle.
Well, once my derringer was empty, you would have been firing for the both of us.
And equal to the taks, believe you fucking me.
Not that I wouldn’t have regretted them children having to witness.
Can I tell you something?
Okay.
Some stupid fucking thing. Stupid fucking dream I had.
Okay.
I dreamed last night I was clamoring up a fucking creek bank,
which is often required of a drunk.
It was dark, and I couldn’t tell where I was
till I cleared the bank and came face to face with Charlie Utter’s ugly mug.
Now Charlie’s, as usual, on the lookout for Bill that’s,
as usual too, losing at poker inside the joint we’re outside of.
“Where are we, Charlie?”
And this could be any fucking place the last number of years.
And he said,
“Jane, don’t you know this is the Number Ten Saloon here in the camp where Bill’s
gonna fucking get killed soon?”
“Jesus Chri—how do you know, Charlie?”
I asked him. He said, “Don’t you know,” he says,
“Some point we know these fucking things?
Don’t you know the world says its fucking name to us?”
“What the fuck? What the fuck do I have to dream about this for,”
I say to Charlie, “Wasn’t I miserable enough?”
“Jane,” fucking Charlie says to me,
“Don’t you know this is the night you couldn’t look out for that little girl
when you was at Cochran’s, and Swearengen come in and scared you
and you went down to the creek to weep?
That’s where the fuck you’re coming from.
And, and, “Don’t you know,” he says,
“This is the night you spirit that child from Cochran’s,
and to where our stock was outside of camp,
and we watched out on that little girl and sung to her, and you,
with the presence of mind to continue the fucking round when I was too fucking stupid?
And you said you would…
Row, row, row and I said…row, row, row your boat…and we had this…”
“Now,” Charlie says to me,
“Don’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you?
Any evenings in your life you made mistakes,
remember where even evenings you was as most ashamed as you ever thought you could ever be
are able to wind up, and don’t fucking only remember the middle of the dream!”
If I wonder why I dreamed that dream…
yesterday you sent Mose to find me,
and I was nearly dead-drowned drunk, and Mose made me get up,
and you and me walked them kids to school,
and before I went to sleep you kissed me.
After Tolliver come, and you found Mose to help me.
And Charlie to help me find that little girl the very night I got scared and run,
and the both of us sung a round to her,
and then you went ahead and kissed me.
To spare you surprise on our advent at the theater in the morning,
I tell you here and now that you will come upon a certain person—
a woman who will be joining us.
Who is she?
Where has she performed?
I believe her name is Joseanne.
She is French?
I believe.
I know she’s spent time in Paris.
Where has she performed?
She has performed nowhere that we would have knowledge of, to my knowledge.
Joseanne?
Yes.
Living at the theater?
Temporarily.
To be installed thereafter where?
Shut up!
I won’t have it, this is getting off on the wrong foot.
So you commit us to a long relation with Joseanne.
You will find her at the Goddamn theater in the morning is what I mean!
And I won’t have this Goddamn wrong-footedness.
Mean-spirited is what I mean.
A lack of generosity. Selfishness.
Don’t you think it all has an effect…
on your performance?
Does this performance seem genuine?
Situation being fluid and not likely to get less so for a while,
I went ahead and reordered hames.
Steve, made imbecile by that horse’s hoof, he couldn’t authorize it.
But I went ahead and assumed whoever finally takes the livery overmight want a restock of hames.
So I ordered ‘em.
Let us give thanks.
Transcripts : Cristi Brockway Synchronisation : Anna Volx