Jane: If you see Bill Hickok, or that sore asshole, Charlie Utter, could you tell him I looked to the stock?
Seth: Sure, I’ll let him know. (Seth leaves, Doc turns to go inside.)
Jane: You’re wrong not to trust him. He formed a party that found that little one among all the dead of her family.
Doc: Didn’t he? And didn’t he also shoot a man he suspected in the murders? And if I were to confide in him when you circulate my optimism, I mean, wouldn’t he say, “When the little one speaks, you’ll see I was right, not the Sioux killed her family, but road agents? And supposing it was road agents, and they hear his talk, where’s the little one stand then?
Jane: You got a dark turn a mind.
Doc: I see as much misery outta them movin’ to justify their selves as them that set out to do harm.
Joanie: What fills the rest of your time?
Ellsworth: Well, Ma’am, I’ve got myself a workin’ gold claim.
Joanie: Well, sir, is that a damn fact?
Ellsworth: Yes, Ma’am, a hell of a workin’ gold claim. And if we knew each other better, I’d throw a fuckin’ in there somewhere.
Joanie: If you did, I’d try to catch it.
Ellsworth: A workin’ fuckin’ gold claim, Joanie. And thank you for allowing me my full range of expression.
Merrick: Gentlemen, what’s to prevent up from freeing our friendship from dependence on that little dining room? Relying not on happenstance and appetite to further commence between us, but on our own conscious choice?
(Seth grabs Sol’s arm)
Utter: Meanin’ what?
Merrick: Meaning, Mr. Utter, the most informal and disorganizedof clubs.
Seth: We gotta open, Sol.
Utter: Yeah, I don’t join clubs.
Merrick: Ah, now, its sole purpose could be just walking together as we are now.
Sol: Well, why don’t we just walk together when we happen to be out?
Merrick: We could, we could, or we could dedicate ourselves to the principle of walking together. Would it—maybe all we need is a name.
Al: How’s the Jew-fucking going?
Trixie: (smoking) It’s alright.
Al: What does it add to my understanding?
Trixie: He’s meetin’ with the widow this morning—spoke to the other of formin’ a bank, and of her in that connection.
Al: Who’s the fucking “other”?
Trixie: Fucking Bullock.
Al: My sensibilities do not need coddlin’ either.
Trixie: (shaking head) It’s no concern for you. (Ashes her cigarette) I don’t like naming the cocksucker. Anyways, that may be it’s purpose, his sittin’ down with the widow.
Al: The Jew? (Trixie nods) I hope you’re getting paid for the pussy. Don’t put a price to it, you’ll lose their respect.
Trixie: He’s teachin’ me accounts.
Al: That’s all right then. Learnin’ is like currency to them.
Trixie: (Widens her eyes) He stares in my eyes when he fucks me, longing-like.
Al: Jesus Christ.
Trixie: (Studies Al) You don’t look so bad.
Al: Yeah, next thing to up and about.
Al: You’ll tell that child no hard feelings, hmm? (He turns to leave)
Alma: What tea do you enjoy?
Al: (turns back) I like that fucking black Darjeeling. Oh.
(He puts a finger to his lips, all coy, like he didn’t mean to say that. Cute, Al. Corrupt the one true lady left in Deadwood.)