Miss Iz goes icy, telling Al not to get distracted from this opportunity for a payoff, that who she works for shouldn't concern him. "Too fucking true," Al says, "[that's] why I pray, firmly, it ain't the Pinkertons whose pay you're in, and that her dead husband's people hired to steal her gold. I got unrelated reasons to hate those cocksuckers." Not blinking, Miss Iz offers him $50,000 for the deal, "separate from pay [to] your subordinates." Al points to Adams ands asks if the sex he's received thus far will count against his pay. "No charge for the pussy," Miss Iz says calmly. Never blinking himself, Al leans in and asks Miss Iz if she'd mind if he took the day to make his decision. "I've got a lot on my plate," he says, "and I'm feeling less than my full fuckin' self." She says she'll wait to hear his decision from Adams. "Do," Al smirks. "That would be grand."
The two leave and cross the thoroughfare. Adams is pissed at having been taken advantage of. "I guess if I called you a c*nt," he says, "I needn't expect you to faint." Miss Iz says no, obviously no longer interested in keeping up the façade that she's some innocent flower. He asks her if "getting struck" would make it on her fake "first" list from last week. He tells her to clear out of his room. She asks him to come and fuck her first. "I'd fear a snakebite," he snarks, but she remains resolute. "Come up and fuck me," she says, stepping close, "and I'll answer every [question] you want to ask."
Down at Nuttall's, the dethroned king of the hoopleheads, Steve, is drowning his sorrows. It's not enough that his gold claim may be worthless, or that his grand plan to get Commissioner Jarry blew up in his face, now Bullock's got to walk in and get in his face. Striding through the door, Bullock asks if he's sober enough to listen. Steve spits on the floor. Bullock ain't impressed. "Did you just intend to insult me?" he asks. Steve's all excuuuuse me, and Bullock tries to be reasonable. He knows, he says, that Steve faces "bidness reverses," and that "people angry at their difficulties, often act like fuckin' idiots," but that there will be no murder in Deadwood of people of any color, or officials of any kind. Steve says, damn, he gets it, if Bullock would just stop rubbing his nose in it. CLENCH. Bullock hits him with a right cross, knocking him to the floor, repeats that Steve's not to misconduct himself again in the camp, and strides out.
Some jag at the bar wonders aloud if Steve has to take what the sheriff's dishing out. "Apparently so," Nuttall says, trying to get the guy to shut up. The stranger starts going on and on about blind Lady Justice, and how Steve's got custom on his side that he doesn't have to put up with Bullock's shit. Steve likes the way this sounds. He begins thinking of remedies to the problem. Like...uh, stabbing Bullock's horse in the ass, and carving a note into its side reading, "Bullock, I fucked your horse!" I suppose the "Lylas, Steve," is implied. "And," Steve clarifies, "if I carve 'fuck,' I WILL have fucked the horse, beforehand." The stranger says he's preaching to the choir, and Steve walks out, a renewed drunk. "Mingled the shit, somewhat," the stranger says to Nuttall, who has watched this scene in disgust. Nuttall suggests that if the guy's looking for a hobby, he ought to take up whittling.