At the graveyard, Reverend Smith is putting his best effort toward Mr. Garret's funeral. Sol stands by with the widow, while E.B. lingers, spider-like, a few feet away. Over by some flowering bushes, Trixie stands over the little girl, who is playing. The girl takes four flowers and lays them side by side. "Ingrid...Marta..." she says, counting them out. "Mama...Papa." It's very sweet, and as Trixie smiles at her, the Rev calls for the great Lutheran hymn, "A Mighty Fortress." Oh, it is a great one, too. I am sort of a hymn nerd -- I freely admit it; I even collect hymnals -- but this one is particularly awesome (come on, it has the word "bulwark" in it!) and is used to perfect effect here. As the group begins singing, E.B. glances over his shoulder to see Bullock and Charlie riding back into town. He freaks and has to make his move. "My sympathies, madam," he says, greasily. "But my own requirements force me to ignore what's seemly." Mrs. G looks at him like something that just oozed from the rocks, and when he offers her $19,500 for the claim, and the singers reach the verse about our ancient foe seeking to work us woe, she tells him to go away. Behind them, Bullock dismounts and looks at Charlie, who has caught a glimpse of Hickok's fresh grave. He can't take it, and says he thinks he'll wait a while to "see Bill."
Bullock walks up to join Mrs. Garret just as they hit this phrase: "Did we in our own strength confide / Our striving would be losing / Were not the right Man on our side / The Man of God's own choosing." Sure, it's an anvil. Hell, it's a Biblical anvil, but...isn't it pretty? That's why I love this show.
Al is counting his money back at the Gem when Dan comes over, saying he hopes Al hasn't given up on the girl, Flora. "Oh, do you worry for her, Dan?" Al asks. "Wandering the muck of our thoroughfare, her tiny self all but swallowed up in horseshit?" Dan makes a confused face, but Al calls out to the girl's brother, asking him to come over. "Stand with us here a second," Al says. The kid asks what they're doing. "Waiting," Al answers. Miles follows Al's eyes to a partition over in the corner of the room. A man emerges, wiping his mouth. "And out the door he'll go," Al says, "and prompt as a Swiss fuckin' timepiece, three big-tittied whores will now emerge from behind that screen." Al is quite correct, of course, and the women do indeed emerge. Conspiratorially, he leans and whispers to Miles. "He lines 'em up at two-foot intervals," Al explains, "smock tops down, and all but sprints past 'em, giving their titties a lick. And if he misses a titty, does not let himself retrace his steps." Miles is amazed. Al says it's just something you have to know about specialists. "They pay a premium," he says, "and they never cause fuckin' trouble." As a matter of fact, Al says, he sometimes thinks of going back to Manchester to open a joint catering only to specialists. "And to let them know they're amongst their own," he says, "maybe I'll operate from the corner, hanging upside down like a fuckin' bat." Miles is enthralled, of course, but this, uh, grandfatherly chat, is certainly not without purpose. "We're not such bad sorts here, huh Miles?" Al asks. Miles says no, certainly not. "So," Al says, getting to the point. "Do you want to ask your sister if she'd like to reconsider?" Miles gives a nervous laugh: "You don't really mean that, Mr. Swearengen..." Al makes a big show, saying of course he doesn't, and goes to meet with E.B. who has just oiled in. "Complications have ensued," E.B. reports. "Bullock's come back." Al can't stand it. He tells E.B. to tell Trixie to come see him. "I trust this doesn't alter our agreement," E.B. says. Al gives him both eyebrows at full barrel. "I trust you know," he says, right in time for tax season, "two percent of nothing's fucking nothing."