Inside the saloon, Al meets with Sol and Bullock while Dan and E.B. look on. They have a polite exchange, with Al telling them he's been so addled by the arrival of these Bella Union people, he hopes the hardware guys understand his reasoning of earlier in the day when he said he would not sell them the claim outright. Getting to the point, Bullock asks what his thinking is now. Al doesn't like that, but declines to murder him on the spot. What he really wants to know is if Bullock and Sol know the new saloon interests. They assure him, no. "Not them," Bullock says, "and not Bill Hickok. All we want to do is run a hardware bidness." Al, with his trust issues in full swing, leans forward to make his feelings clear. "I have got to be satisfied," he says. "Why wouldn't ya, Mr. Swearengen?" Sol asks, all casual, and Al thanks him for saying that "even if you don't fuckin' mean it."

Once again, Bullock is over it. "What would make you comfortable selling to us?" he asks. Al shoots a look over to E.B. before laying down his ridiculous terms. He wants a thousand for the lot; right of first refusal on any further sale; right to buy back the lot at the original price; and the right to insist that the men have no association whatever with the Bella Union people, including the crazy demand that they not even sell them any hardware. Sol agrees to all of this while Bullock clenches in silence. E.B., for his part, looks smug as a bug.

Al sighs and struggles mightily to do a nice thing -- he says he guesses it will be all right after all for them to sell their stuff to the Bella Union. "So," Bullock says, smelling a con, "we can sell them our wares?" Al: "Your normal fucking wares. No gambling, whoring or whiskey on the fucking premises is the chief fucking point." Sol can hardly wait to seal the deal. He reaches out to shake on it, and Al asks him to perform Deadwood's traditional nasty secret handshake. "I spit in my hand," Al says, full of eyebrows. "Will that drive you screaming into the hills?" Hee. Right now, Sol would spit just about anywhere to get the lot. They spit in their hands, shake, and the deal is done.

In the street, ol' Soapy is putting forward the idea of a Wild Bill Shooting Extravaganza to Charlie, who looks totally bored. "That idea for Mr. Hickok has been had and acted upon by a few people before you," he says. But Soapy's on a roll. "And then afterward," he says, "we cut the bullets out AND the fuckin' playing cards he was usin' as targets -- that's the point I was tryin' to get to." Yes, genius. Heavy with sarcasm, Charlie suggests they also sell the tree bark behind the targets. Soapy, so full of good ol' American capitalism, says, "Hell, yeah, we'll sell the fuckin' bark."