Back at the Bella Union, the Earps are taking in the scene. Wyatt looks kind of nervous and suggests that maybe they ought to head on out to the timber lease tonight. Morgan reminds him he doesn't know where it is. "Second look, he don't seem such a bad sort, that fucking sheriff," he adds. "Maybe we ought to be fucking deputies, work our lease on the fucking side." Wyatt points out that Bullock didn't exactly offer them jobs. "Well, then let's kill him and take his job," Morgan half-jokes, and Wyatt can't help but smile. Cy, who Wyatt whispers might actually have some work for them, comes down to chat. There is some allusion made to Cy's potential job offer factoring into some plan Wyatt has, but it is not explained. Wyatt makes introductions. "What a beautiful fucking joint," Morgan exclaims. Cy: "Well, we like to think so."
It's dinner time at the livery! Ew. Except in this case, Jane is struggling to feed the unresponsive Steve, who continues to stare blankly ahead. "Come on, you fucknut," she says, trying to push some porridge in his mouth. "Without a day's education, medical or otherwise, I vouchsafe this fucking truth: Those as don't eat, without exception, fail to survive." Steve remains vegetative. Jane finally has to give up. "Fuck it," she says, slopping the pan back down. "He's all yours," she says, defeated, to the boozing NG. He thanks her for her help and is left alone with his fallen nemesis.
All this bullshit has finally gotten to the NG. He gives Steve a sly, sideways glance. "You heard her, Steve," he says, smiling. "Them that goes on have got to fucking eat!" With that, he slings spoon after spoon of mush into Steve's face. "Cocksucker," he laughs. "Cocksucker!"
HEARST'S NAKED ASS! Uh, hello. Yes, Hearst is lying on his stomach on a table in his room, BUCK WILD, preparing to be worked on by Langrishe's special brand of back magic. The Countess, who I assume Jack has brought along as a witness, looks austerely on as Jack goes dramatically about his preparations. "Do for me, Mr. Hearst, and much more for yourself, this one important thing: breeeeeeeeeeathe, sir," he says, waving his hands above Hearst's back all new agey. "Breathe deeply, hungrily, as if your life depended on it!" Hearst inhales rapidly. "And yet slowly!" Langrishe cries. "As with the rhythm of the waves of the sea, the while, Mr. Hearst, allowing influx of my motion's heat." He waves his hands more strenuously back and forth above Hearst's body. The Countess nods her approval of this performance. "Do you begin to feel it, man?" Langrishe asks significantly. Hearst, overwhelmed by all this, says he thinks so. "Then too," Jack says, intensifying the energy-moving motions he's using, "begin to feel this: One towards the neck and one towards the coccyx." He pauses above those areas with his palms and cries out suddenly, as if he has transferred Hearst's pain to himself. "Some release in tension?" he asks, strained. "Yes," Hearst laughs, amazed. "Yes, by God!" Langrishe groans and collapses, stepping back to take the Countess' hand. Hearst begins to get up, but Jack insists otherwise. "Now, lie still, sir," he says, "as your nodals settle to the adjustment. Try to sleep." Hearst mumbles that he doesn't want to sleep. "I'm waiting for something," he says. Jack and The Countess are making a swift exit as Jack calls back over his shoulder, "Very well, please yourself."