He's gone up with your son.
Wants notice when you're ready to serve.
I knocked holes in these walls.
Confinement gives me the fidgets.
Set yourself up comfortable.
Let me confide as well, Odell,
that when people only say to me with other words
what I have just said to them, I quickly grow impatient.
- All right, sir. - Tell me about the gold.
I will, sir...
what little I know to say, hoping you will learn me the rest.
This is what they call an assay and metallurgist report.
Yes, I've heard of those.
Sit down, boy. Sit down.
"Third Baptist Congregation, Monrovia Settlement."
The congregation has title to the find.
How are you connected to the congregation?
- I'm first deacon, sir. - I see. Congratulations.
Being you were known to me through my mama's letters,
when the proposals started to come to us...
- Proposals? - The different English proposals.
From Great Britain, you mean?
To develop the find, yes, sir.
I was sent to ask if you'd guide us.
Does your congregation conceive some sort of a partnership, Odell?
However you thought we should do.
I do take in partners with the understanding
that in dealing with the color, mine is the deciding voice.
Dealing with the color, sir?
The gold... securing and exploiting the gold.
Do you want to see the gold now, sir?
- Do you want to show it to me? - They give it to me to show you, sir.
Suppose we oughtn't...
let the congregation down.
I can't imagine your mother's not nearly prepared our supper.
What do you think of the gold?
It makes me hungry, Odell.
Harry should be at the meeting.
I ain't saying he shouldn't. I wasn't told to invite him.
Candidate for public office.
Please convey to Al that short of being forbidden,
I intend to bring Harry with me.
I'll convey that word for word.
And what would be my position?
Oughtn't I attend as the livery's new owner?
Hostetler never attended.
Prior to blowing off his fucking head,
Hostetler was a nigger.
Last I looked I'm white!
True, as far as it goes.
I can abstain from attending if that closes the can of peas.
You are a candidate for public office
with a chance to put the fire wagon on the table.
If it's a question of room,
shove two fucking tables together!
Room is not the issue, Steve,
if you have to see my down card.
I do not vouch for you,
nor presume to bring you uninvited, as I do Harry,
because you are not the same quality person.
Meaning I'm not fanatic
for fucking fire wagons like Harry
and all the other five-year-olds.
Anyways I've still got the doc to invite.
Is this the quickest way to the cabin here...
Tell Al add an extra peach dish.
Can you certify the purity of your blood, Steve?
I only ask because your nose is... broad.
Take your apron off, and consider changing your shirt,
which I fucking suggested yesterday.
Will you mind very much
if we have our dinner quickly?
Camp business, dear?
Come to cases,
I will get sent to hire guns...
quick time,
bouncing in the fucking saddle
and howling at every goddamn hoof-fall,
aches in every bone.
- I put out cinnamon. - Where?
- The meeting table. - On whose instruction?
Cinnamon's good with peaches.
Do not put unauthorized cinnamon on the goddamn meeting table.
That's all the fuck we need.
It's available as a choice.
Which is not your province to offer, Jewel.
If food's not my province, then you can make your own fucking breakfast.
I had best not come out of this goddamn kitchen
and find goddamn cinnamon on the fucking meeting table.
Leg up to Cheyenne by now, I'd be heading there
in a civilized fucking gait.
Doc!
Johnny Burns, Doc!
You remember you-you come to that...
that meeting before
to set the pest tent up and the like?
And E.B. Was made mayor?
Hey, Doc.
You can't talk?
Anyway, Al's got another of them meetings.
You can't come?
Jesus, Doc.
All right, all right. I'll tell him... you can't come.
Anyway, look, I hope... I hope you feel better.
My best efforts, Odell, do not yet persuade your mother
to be indifferent to the opinions of others.
If it's all right with you, Mr. Hearst,
it's all all right with me.
- This looks wonderful, Mama. - Thank you.
I suppose you've told your mama about being first deacon
of your congregation in Liberia.
I haven't yet had the chance to give her the news.
Does your congregation have no strictures, Odell,
against its deacons drinking?
It does, yes, sir.
Yet the smell of liquor's on your breath.
Do I mistake?
No, sir, Mr. Hearst, you don't.
Did you have one drink of liquor, Odell,
from nervousness about our talk?
- I admit I did, sir, yes. - Did you drink
on the ship from Liberia?
- No, sir. - Or coming overland from New York?
No, sir, Mr. Hearst.
Would the liquor I smell then be the first you've ever consumed?
I've had some before, sir.
Prior to becoming deacon of Third Baptist of Monrovia
or after?
I guess a little of both.
Showing gold thousands of miles
from its purported source to authenticate a find,
I would associate less with our Savior's qualities of character
than Adam's, or someone pretending to his innocence.
Before he met the serpent.
Hmm.
The combative note in that pleases me, Odell,
as against what till now has seemed haphazard
and sloven and slipshod
in your approach to fleecing me.
My mistake was thinking that you'd want your niggers praising Jesus.
What the hell are we talking about this for?
Did the assay make sense or not?
Ten dollars'll buy a report
that proves a find of pure ore in your ass, Odell.
I guess that's why I didn't figure till you'd had someone over there,
we'd be drawing up any papers.
Figured this'd be a getting-to-know-each-other conversation,
seeing if we'd want to go any further.
Far as I'm concerned, we don't.
Calm down. Now just calm down, son.
If I have mistook you in some regard,
you'll find I'm man enough to apologize.
Now, just sit down,
we'll finish our meal,
and then maybe afterwards we'll take in the camp
and, if you have any vices beyond your drinking,
I might even offer you a cigar.
How's he doing?
Holding his fucking own.
...then I asked, "What good am I to myself or the camp
standing sentinel over a coffee pot?"
Was why I came home.
I wish you wouldn't smoke in here.
I wish, when asleep, you wouldn't snore and fucking fart.
I have no choice about either of those.
If I extinguish this fucking cigarette,
it'll be in the middle of your fucking forehead.
Ah.
I'm glad she fucking fired me.
I hate that fucking bank.
It's the context, I think, that disturbs you,
that she's back to using dope.
Yes yes! That she's back on the dope disturbs me.
And why, even as we speak,
your own life hangs by a fucking thread.
What's to become of that child?
- Johnny Burns, Mr. Star! - What is it?
Well, Al's called a meeting like the ones you've come to before.
Does Sheriff Bullock know?
Seemed to me they halfway called it together.
All right, I'm coming.
If you ain't et dessert yet, don't.
- All right. - Al's broke out the canned peaches.
All right.
The Bullocks could take her.
Or we could.
You'd have us care for a child?
Now more than previously, Sofia,
Mr. Ellsworth will...
spend time at the diggings.
Did he not come home last night?
I'm not sure, darling.
Possibly he did not.
And maybe that's why you didn't waken.
I didn't feel his beard.
Possibly that's why.
But he will be seeing you.
And everything will be all right.
I gave him a foolproof fucking approach
to wind up with that woman's claim,
and I could have been shit drawing flies.
Hearst is that fucking focused
on Bullock pulling his ear.
Yeah?
All collected but Doc.
- Where the fuck is he? - He ain't up to it, he says.
- Cinnamon's out for the peaches. - Huh?
That wasn't my fucking doing.
Giving Hearst Bullock is the only move that don't end with the camp in flames.
And that one only gets us up to 50-50.
It sounds as if Cochran's turned face to the wall.
His fucking lungs.
There's quite a falling off among the other sawbones in camp.
We might put notice in the Eastern papers.
Once we've ceased our weeping.
Got a meeting.
Had he known our might and guile,
Hearst would have never left the Comstock.
Ernie, you got credit for a free tug tomorrow. Let's go.
I'll spank it myself. Just watch me.
You'll spank it in front of a goddamn mule team.
Sirs, if I might explain.
In my vision, I leapt from the coach
and straight come to see him.
Al's got a meeting tonight, Gustave.
Tell him your vision tomorrow.
Mr. Swearengen!
It's just as I imagined!
I have something so important to give to you.
What?
You mustn't ask me what. And you mustn't ask me why.
You must go fuck yourself.
And don't speak disgusting to me
or answer for Mr. Swearengen
what is a very important answer.
Let me know when Bullock arrives.
Ah.
Oh, Tom Nuttall's coming and he's bringing Harry Manning.
Bullock!
Guess if you've got a pussy,
even owning a bank don't get you to that table.
Jesus Christ, easy easy easy easy.
There'll be conversations left and right.
Don't get too far up there on the fucking wrist.
- Do you want to use the sponge? - That's not the fucking point.
You just not be starting length and breadth conversations
throughout the fucking camp or territory or so on.
Or do I suppose now I take off my fucking undershirt
or the like and show my tits and so forth!?
I'll leave you to wash that part.
Who the fuck am I fucking kidding or putting on airs in front of?
I been disrobed in front of every...
barnyard creature that hunts
or pecks or rolls in the fucking mud.
Who the fuck should I have shyness before
or pride or the like, for Christ's sake?
What difference does it make?
What the fuck do I have to be ashamed of at this late fucking date?
Who cares anyway?!
Now go ahead and sponge my fucking tits
and get it over with if that's what you fucking do.
It's nothing like that, Jane.
Well, what's it like then? I never had a sister.
I had two.
And I slept with both of them.
I don't know why God let me or...
if He forgives me when I pray, but...
but I'd never hurt you, Jane,
or touch you if you didn't want.
I believe that.
But I don't want to open my eyes.
But you can go ahead and kiss me if that's what you fucking do.
What possesses me to buy all of these swatches?
Even though I have no reason why I should!
Because who back at that camp
would wear suits of such colors?
But I have learned sometimes
if you have a thing, the reason for the thing is that you have it!
And when I am in New York City,
I have a letter from a friend.
In the news from the camp, he says,
"And Mr. Swearengen
has lost the top part of his middle finger
to an accident some kind."
And I say, "I will take these swatches
to Mr. Swearengen," and, "I like the look of his vest
when he is out in the morning,
out on the balcony, drinking his coffee,
and he is very much a handsome man at those times,
and maybe he would like one for his stump.
Or maybe more... a different swatch
for every day, why not?"
Give me your stump. Don't think about it. Just give it to me.
Now this corner of the swatch
we pretend is the lost child.
The little boy goes up the mountain,
around the bend,
always looking for Mama.
And where does he finally find her?
Where?
Here she is! Here's Mama!
Wrapping herself around you
tight tight tight.
Mama's got you, Little Al. Everything's all right!
I like that color very very much.
Do you?
Please God, come in.
Bullock.
Thank you, Gustave. Please leave.
Before the color, no white man...
no man of any hue moved to civilize
or improve a place like this had reason to make the effort.
The color brought commerce here,
and such order as has been attained.
Yes, sir.
Do you want to help Liberia, Odell?
I want to help myself.
If Liberia is where my chance is,
it's all right with me.
Gold is your chance.
- Thank you, sir. - Gold is every man's opportunity.
Why do I make that argument?
Because every defect in a man
and in others' way of taking him,
our agreement that gold has value
gives us power to rise above.
Fond as you are of my mother,
without that gold I showed you,
I don't expect we'd be out here talking.
That is correct.
And, for your effrontery at our meal a moment ago...
I'd have seen you shot or hanged without a second thought.
The value I gave the gold
restrained me, you see...
your utility in connection to it.
And because of my gold, those at the other tables
deferred to my restraint.
Gold confers power.
Power comes to any man who has the color.
Even if he's black?
That is our species' hope:
That uniformly agreeing on its value,
we organize to seek the color.
Just before you and I met, Odell,
the camp's sheriff released me from a jail cell.
- That's hard for me to feature. - I hate these places, Odell,
because the truth that I know,
the promise that I bring,
the necessities I'm prepared to accept make me outcast.
Isn't that foolish?
Isn't that foolishness?
An old man disabused long ago
of certain yearnings and hopes
as to how he would be held by his fellows,
and yet I weep.
Anyway, sir,
you want to send someone back with me?
Yes, I do.
Yes, I do, son.
I want to send you to help your people...
and take this place down like Gomorrah.
All being affected,
we might consider some facts as a group.
I arrested Hearst, acting in the name of the camp.
Without the camp's previous fucking say-so.
Do you propose that?
Getting a say-so before I do my duty?
Might be a good open... showing Hearst it's off of him.
Bullock's tin won't placate Hearst.
Give it the fuck back to him.
Add to your statement or shut the fuck up.
I'm done.
Shall I, as Mayor, initiate proceedings
by giving my own opinions,
however titular
and insubstantial
and merely honorific the position?
Which argues against my doing so.
How is Hearst likely to answer?
Ought steps to be taken in preemption?
My instinct's to act alone,
chart the course for fucking carnage.
That this would be general
among 'em whose parents were so dim as to bring them...
the fucking innocence is what gives me fucking pause.
I invite the suggestions of others
against my instinct to send for the guns.
As I've expressed to the sheriff
and Mr. Star,
and siding with your instincts,
to protect the innocents, I'd send them from the camp.
Then fall on Hearst and his in their lair
before they fall on us in ours.
As Wild Bill would have done.
This is a letter.
Who's the fucking letter to?
What the fuck is going on?
- Last of those Cornishmen murdered. - Pasco.
- His family. - Read the letter.
"It becomes my painful duty to inform you that Pasco Carwen
- was killed earlier this week." - Stop poking your head out.
I'm seeing who's using the cinnamon,
and Harry Manning's using it plenty.
"...was not mutilated in any way.
His death seems to have been instantaneous
as he was stabbed through the heart.
Pasco's funeral occurred today
and was attended by coworkers and friends
who all shared the same high opinion of him.
Everything was done by kind hands
that was possible under the circumstances,
and a Christian burial was given him.
I was not personally acquainted with Mr. Carwen,
save for one encounter where he demonstrated grief
and deep compassion at the passing of a friend.
I knew him by reputation as an earnest worker
and a diligent believer in right and wrong.
His memory I am sure will always be
with those who knew and loved him,
among whose number I imagine you as first.
A letter from you which I found in his tent
causes me to convey this sad intelligence to you.
Sincerely yours, Seth Bullock."
What shall I do with this, Mr. Bullock?
What's your fucking paper for?
You fucking publish as witness,
for Hearst and others to read.
That's a very nice fucking letter.
Mr. Blazanov,
had you much traffic tonight on your apparatus?
Some traffic, yes.
I hope your important meeting had a good result.
As free men
facing important challenges,
we choose to be optimistic.
Sir, I ask you
take me to Mr. Swearengen's place.
Well, l... I will, of course, Mr. Blazanov,
though no activity you may contemplate,
for example, the making of friends with his female employees,
requires Mr. Swearengen's personal approval.
I wish to see him for another purpose.
All right.
Shall we go now?
Certainly.
Mmm.
Come on.
Lovely letter, wasn't it?
Didn't you...
come back sick from one of them meetings?
Last year, from the peaches.
Which is why I refrained this time around.
Far as the fire wagon,
I gather you felt as I did,
the moment was wrong to broach it.
My... my throat
is all fucking tight.
Where did you lay your hands on liquor, Harry?
Harry?
Help! Harry?
Harry! Help!
Oh.
Look, Jack.
White lumps on my tongue.
Reel it in, for God's sake.
I'm so sorry.
It's close, Jack.
It's very close.
I feel it's... it's at breath.
I hear it whispering in my ear.
"Forget your name.
We go to black."
The downstairs buffet is quite passable.
Oh.
As like to kill you as take passage
with you to Liberia,
his man you meeting in New York.
If Mr. Hearst wanted me killed, Mama,
- he could see it done here. - Don't you ever believe
you know what'd please that man,
or salt him to come after you.
And you look a fool holding that cigar!
I've played one for smaller stakes.
And the gold ain't playing.
I ain't trying to steal nothing.
I'll work my way up the hog.
And ain't you sent me out there so I can turn out a man?
I sent you so the hell that was coming here for niggers wouldn't burn you up.
There's plenty of fire in Liberia.
I can't undo what I done, Odell,
any more than you can, searching out hurt.
I ain't searching no hurt out.
We all get our portion. We don't need to draw it to us.
You hear me, Mama? I ain't searching no goddamn hurt out.
I done told you to mind who you talking to.
All right, Mama. No bad language.
If you'd kept me to raise me, maybe I'd know.
He got $742 for you,
the little nigger at the livery.
And this brooch here too, you can take.
I can't find it.
Lord Jesus, forgive me!
When I read you had stayed in the Comstock,
I tried to come here quick,
be gone before he sent for you to come.
I ain't come here to hurt you.
I never said you come to do me hurt.
So's you wouldn't have to see me.
I prayed to see you every day you was gone.
My God, Odell, what's wrong with you?
No joy to seeing my boy!
- I'm sorry, son. - Hush, Mama. Hush. Hush.
Oh, do what you think you got to.
I couldn't find the right.
Hush now, Mama. Hush.
Oh!
I got you now.
"Bricks." You see there?
Yes, I see.
"Bricks. 25 bricks. Stop.
Addition to initial order. Stop.
First means of delivery. Stop."
And, Blazanov?
Do you believe, Mr. Swearengen,
Mr. Hearst orders more bricks?
No.
What do you believe?
I believe he orders more humans.
- Reinforcements. - To do harm!
As we saw on our walk.
Leave to die in a country strange to them,
men apart from their families,
working to give them support.
Fuck confidentiality of communications.
- Why not fuck a woman instead? - I hope so eventually.
Now I deliver under seal
his message to Mr. Hearst.
I'll dispose of this, Blazanov.
How are you occupying yourself, Richardson?
I'm praying the meeting went well.
Very touching.
Now clear your mind of the meeting
and account for the Negro with Hearst.
They're both in her room.
Despite your best efforts, Richardson,
an answer of some ambiguity.
Is she with them?
- One. - One what?
Of them. Is with her.
- Who? - Aunt Lou.
- Who is with Aunt Lou? - Her son.
And where is Hearst?
His room.
Then I will retire to mine.
Well, how was the meeting?
I imagine the pool that spawned you.
I am filling it with rocks.
I am holding shut your gills
to prevent you from taking in air.
I suppose the meeting went quite well.
I itch.
- Dust. - No matter how much
regularity of cleaning or consideration for the children,
a place like this is filled with dust.
He's dead.
Chesterton is with us still,
though to bring him in the evening chill would be imprudent.
We'll bring him tomorrow
when this room is less cold.
After the children have gone and before you bring him,
I will give the place a good dust.
Then the carpentry will begin.
You've engaged the carpenters?
Yes.
He is close to the end, isn't he?
Yes, Bellegarde!
For Christ's sake!
Haunted.
Drafts from all over.
From the walls, from the side,
swooping down from the ceiling.
I will dust anyway for Chesterton,
even though after, the carpenters come.
Uh, the attitude on people leaving
definitely stepped forward from the attitude they wore coming in.
I mean, no one's trying to quarrel about that.
Then what's your quarrel?
I'm asking what was decided.
They're publishing the letter as witness.
- Witness? - A witness in the sense that...
Witness the letter... its content.
Yeah, the letter's contents is witness
that...
Bullock wrote a nice fucking letter.
And it proves...
that that's the sort we are here,
the caring sort that would write a letter of that ilk.
Furthermore, we don't give a fuck who knows it,
George fucking Hearst included.
Fucking Hearst especially.
Is the witness?
Better late than fucking never, Johnny.
Hey! Little Miss Fucking Cinnamon.
I wanna be good.
Good evening.
For being gone, l...
I notice I'm frequently back.
I come to kiss her good night.
I tried to persuade her you'd done so last night.
My beard always wakes her.
She said so, refuting me.
The thing I did
that made you leave last night,
the thing I was coming home to do again...
I pray now to forego forever.
Not having me in this house is gonna improve your odds.
I started using spirits at 17, Ellsworth,
with no premonition we'd marry.
Well, my feeling's that being vessel
of purposes not your own, your eye was out for relief.
But glimpsing since
how being your own vessel is preferable,
let the pressure come off
and you're liable to do all right.
You are no pressure.
My...
friendly hands'll
always be out to both of you.
May I interrupt her sleep with this beard?
She'd be so glad if you did.
- Yes? - Cheyenne and Black Hills Telegraph.
Yes, all right.
- Evening. - Telegram for Mr. Hearst.
Ah, thank you.
I wonder if you might remain just a moment while I read it,
on the chance I'll want to answer.
Of course.
- "Additional shipment of bricks." - Yes, sir.
Yeah, this is fine. This is fine.
- There'll be no answer. - This is $20, sir.
It's all right, son. Thanks for doing your job well.
You're most welcome.
John Langrishe, Al.
Come on, Jack.
- Early finish below? - We'd a meeting.
I ought to have asked you to.
What topic commended my presence?
Reprobates? The elderly?
Fucking Hearst...
that took an axe to my left middle digit,
sends for 25 more thugs to take the tool
to the whole fucking camp.
Why am I fucking optimistic?
Did your meeting find a strategy in counterpoise?
We heard the fucking reading of a letter.
- Ah. - Writ by Bullock,
to a miner's family after Hearst had had him murdered.
Exhorting they charge Hearst with the crime?
Never once mentioning Hearst.
Expressing sympathy to the family,
respect for the way the man lived.
We decided Merrick would publish in the paper.
Strategy some may call ingenuous,
others merely off the point.
I sit mystified I was moved to endorse it.
Mystified, Al,
at proclaiming a law beyond law to a man who's beyond law himself?
Its publication invoking a decency
whose scrutiny applies to him as to all his fellows.
I call that strategy cunningly sophisticated,
befitting and becoming the man who sits before me.
Open the place back up!
Tell the whores if their legs ain't in the air,
they'd better be off their asses!
So what progress in your affairs?
Our opening is delayed.
An old man is dying... one of my actors.
And...
I'm sad.
Oh...
perhaps just the one.
- In? - Folded up on the boardwalk beside me
- like a goddamned accordion. - So you've remarked.
I believe I'll take my leave...
You're wheezing bad as me, Doc. Did you eat cinnamon too?
...lest I distract from the business at hand
by requesting a fucking drink!
Have you adverse reactions to other food or condiments, Harry?
Eggplant shreds the roof of my mouth
if it's any of your fucking business.
Irritability at the bowel, we know you suffer from.
You're all right.
Don't eat cinnamon anymore.
- Or eggplant? - Not if it shreds your mouth.
Hope you don't mind my absconding with you from your cabin, Doc.
- No. - Campaigning any threat
to Harry's health?
- How was the meeting? - Oh, it was all right.
Um, needless to say, we missed you.
I am so glad your mother isn't alive
to see you in this condition.
Doc, get up here.
Not tonight.
Tonight. Now.
Leave your kit. I'll have Johnny go get it.
I'm not gonna leave my fucking kit.
I wonder what you think you're fucking doing.
I'm laying down before I leave in the morning.
I will ask the questions here!
This is my place.
Do you think it's yours? It is not.
It is mine, bought and paid for.
And if I wanted to shit this instant in the middle of this stable,
no man, black or white, could gainsay me!
You've already fucked a horse.
Nor will I stoop
to explaining the mistake in that statement,
to a nigger lemur
or some other small form of monkey.
Where you going in the morning?
West... San Francisco.
I'm hoping that chestnut's owner might go with me.
The demon nigger that appeared at the bar.
The very same.
I don't suppose...
knowing I'd be vigilant
against theft and intolerant to tardiness...
you'd be inclined to stay on and work here.
No.
Nor would I want to fucking have you!
And do not come and try to murder me as I sleep!
And...
I will not come
and try to murder you.
Black fucking bastard.
What did you want?
- Fucking sick, I'm told. - I have a chest cold.
You're a lunger.
Fucking samples, Doc.
Notions from that tailor
as to how we cover my stump.
I've believed for the last dozen years
that disease is airborne,
and I won't make others sick.
No one gets out alive, Doc.
Jesus Christ!
The fucking gimp finds something useful to do
in the fucking brace you made her!
Do you think you could treat being Johnny...
always struggling to fashion a thought?!
Every fucking night
I, that could cut a throat but sleep the sleep of the just,
spend six fucking wakings
trying to find a piss pot with my dribble,
and wondering when I got to be so old.
Pick a fucking swatch for a spit rag,
use the others for masks, and go about your fucking business!
I ain't learning a new doc's quirks!