We now come to the part of the episode that made me want to hurl things at the TV. All the words in the English language would not be enough to describe the absolutely roiling racist anger brewing. The actor that plays Steve is so outrageous and over the top, from here on out, I became physically uncomfortable whenever he was on screen. I'm not saying he's bad, I'm saying he's playing it so big and with such emotion that we would easily get it even from the back row of Giants' Stadium. His bug-eyed vitriol very quickly got on my nerves, and I already hated the character.
Steve strides into Nuttall's telling the story of this recent beatdown he has received from the Universe. With trepidation, Tom asks what's happened. "What I swore up and down was gonna happen, and nobody paid me any heed," Steve bellows. "What happened to me in Utica and every other fuckin' place I've ever been in my fuckin' life! The livery's gone. All my labor, efforts are gone for naught. And they walked in like they never fucking left, and they didn't take responsibility for trampling that white boy!" He makes some ominous remarks about wondering what the sheriff is going to say about that, and stomps out. Nuttall, no fool, loads his gun.
At the Grand Central, Con Stapleton is renting a room. E.B. regards him with an open smirk. "If you stay in camp long, sir," he says, mocking, "you may have the delightful surprise of meeting your identical twin." Con snatches the key and goes upstairs. "He has appointed to degrade himself," E.B. says, Greek-chorus-style, watching him go. "The open question is with whom."
Steve has begun his Tour of Justice. He walks into the hardware store and starts in on Bullock as if he knows at all what's going on. "At the Saloon Number fucking 10!" Steve says indicating his unexplained drama. "Well, are you coming?" Bullock doesn't even pause to clench. "Yeah, I'm fucking coming."
Ellsworth visits the bank and sweetly places an apple on his wife's desk. "You don't confuse me with Mrs. Bullock?" she asks, joking, and then realizes the faux pas a split-second too late. Oops. Nice one, Mrs. E. Her husband, for his part, lets it roll. "Well, as far as the conjugal enterprise," he winks, "I'll admit often feeling like a schoolboy." Ellsworth! Gracious me. I guess they aren't fighting anymore. Alma smiles and thanks him for the apple. "Speaking further," Ellsworth says, with pride, "'twixt your mine and now this bank, however much I mayn't be good at it, I feel I married rather well." Aw. Over at the teller window, Trixie is having her customer service skills to the test. A typical Deadwood citizen is bitching her out about always having his money available to him, day or night. "Mayn't I draw you a map then in case it's night you want it," she smarts, "to lead you to where I live so you can wake me?" The guy doesn't take kindly to this. "Now, fuck you then," he says, "I ain't depositing." Trixie: "Oh no? Oh, say it ain't fuckin' so, you stupid fucking asshole!" Ellsworth decides to step in and tries to calm the situation. The depositor, though, he doesn't appreciate this, and snappily asks who the fuck Ellsworth is, anyway. Alma stands now, firmly trying to insert herself, but Ellsworth tells her to stay out of it. "Deposits here, if we fucking let you make them," he says, "are backed by this lady's gold mine. So do not confuse her with some paper palace fly-by-night who means 'catch me if you can, turn me upside down and whatever falls out of my pants pocket is what's behind my scrip,' when his note says 'full faith and credit.'" Alma, watching all this, gives an imperceptible smile. He's no Bullock, sure, but he can clench pretty damn well and seeing Ellsworth stick up for her gives her no small thrill. Finally, after Ellsworth shouts the guy down, she is able to introduce herself. "I am Mrs. Ellsworth," she says, all smiles. "How do you do?" the hoople asks, nervously glancing at Ellsworth, "I guess I'll try you out." Trixie smirks and writes the bank's first marketing tagline: "Our hearts fuckin' leap with joy."