He sighs, saying that things will be different when the annexation happens, and the camp will just have to adapt. He points to the gold again, saying he hopes those nuggets will be appearing on a regular basis. Trixie says no, they won't. "How's your arm?" he asks now, trying to be casual. She says it's all right. "Don't fuckin' try," he says, clearly uncomfortable but sincere, "doin' away with yourself again, huh?" Surprised, Trixie almost smiles.
Bullock brings Ellsworth over to the hotel to be introduced to Mrs. G for whom he has so successfully assayed a bonanza. She is in a great mood to see Bullock, of course, and after introducing Sophia, cheerfully thanks Ellsworth for his help. He practically does an aw-shucks, and says it was just luck. Bullock says that Ellsworth has agreed to work her claim for wages, and tips his hat to leave, but Mrs. G asks for a private word. "I hope you are not disassociating yourself from my affairs," she says, even though she pretty much demanded that he do so before. He smiles, saying he already knows how he feels about Ellsworth, and that this meeting is for her to decide how she feels about him, after which they can meet and compare notes. "Toward a future point," he says, "when you tell me my thinking's so consistently wrongheaded it's a waste of your valuable time having to deal with me." Oh, Clench. She would never say that! Can't you see the stars in her eyes like some little girl mooning over Joey McIntyre? She's practically got a poster of you hanging over her bed! Anyway, she says she knows he's pulled in several directions and appreciates his help and blah blah blah, blow him already. It's not that I don't like these characters -- I like them both -- it's that I do like the idea of them together. Over at the desk, E.B. confers with one of his seldom-seen employees, a redheaded guy with a bad Irish accent and a very unamusing story to tell. Seems this guy, we'll call him Mick, was just down at the creek, washing his pants. "A habit," E.B. says, "to cultivate." By some miracle, the guy also found another pair of his pants down there that he must have lost on one of his drunks, a scenario not unheard of, apparently, since the Mick has been known to "shit himself" on occasion. Even E.B., rat of the underworld, is grossed out. By an even bigger miracle, Mick's found pants contained an item he had entirely forgotten about until finding it, just now. It's a letter Wild Bill Hickok wrote the night he died and asked Mick to post as he was on his way out to Nuttall's. E.B. is immediately on alert, but he's so sneaky, he plays the stupid lackey like an Irish harp. "I only hope you haven't opened it," he says, slyly, and Mick shows that he hasn't. E.B. says that that at least eliminated tampering from the list of crimes Mick has committed "in which your inebriation and sloth, as my employee, has implicated my hotel." Bad, bad E.B. He snatches the letter away, hiding it just in time that Charlie, walking in, doesn't see it. E.B. snakily wishes him congrats on his new mail route. Charlie says it will take a while to find out if congratulations are in order. He pauses, now, and for whatever reason, decides to consult E.B. on some fashion advice -- since it's his first day on the job, he decided to wear a frock coat, he says. E.B. tells him it's very flattering. "You don't think it looks stupid?" Charlie asks, and E.B. says no, not to him. I love it. And it's nice to give E.B. a little moment where he isn't scheming or being disgusting.