Oh, hello. Yes, I'm in the middle of a recap.
Outside, Bullock is walking down the thoroughfare with Rev. Smith, who is explaining that he was a field nurse during the war, at Shiloh and Second Manassas. "That was...a good deal of violence," he says. Bullock gives a knowing nod and asks the holy man if that's when he got his "calling" to be a minister. The Rev. says yes, that out of all that horror, the Lord directed his steps. "He directeth all our steps, Mr. Bullock," he says, turning to his new friend. "All of us." Bullock stops and grins a little. "If you're preaching at me, Reverend, you need to put a little more light on the text." Come on, Bullock, if anybody went to Sunday School, you did. Quit hiding your light under a bushel. And by "bushel," I mean your mustache. The Rev. assures Bullock that if he is preaching at him, he's not fulfilling his calling at all.
They have now arrived at the hardware tent, where Sol is messing around in the wares. Bullock, still all smiles from his little chat, asks Sol if they've acquired the lot, saying he's brought the preacher to help start on their building project. He gets bad news, however. Sol: "We're still hangin' fire." Bullock goes to InstaClench, and asks what's the hold-up. Sol explains about the Bella Union coming into town, pissing off Al and making the situation untenable for pushing Al to a decision on the lot. Bullock's mad. "I got all the lumber cut!" he says, through his teeth. "And I warned you that was premature," Sol tells him. Now Bullock's real mad: "You said '98 percent' after your last conversation with that sonofabitch." Sol nods and busts out the new math: "Ninety-eight is not 100." The Rev., still in the background, sees his cue when Bullock clenches out a "goddammit!" and takes his leave.
Over at the Grand Central, now it's Jane's turn to play a little "I told you so." She was right -- E.B. doesn't want her in his hotel, even though she's standing there with the sick squarehead girl on her shoulder. Charlie implores E.B. that if it's the room rate that's holding him back from letting Jane in, to just go on and raise the rates. E.B. lies that it's not just rates, that there's a waiting list for occupancy. Jane's had enough. "You undertaker-lookin' sonofabitch," she hollers at the slimy E.B., "this little girl's doctor-ordered to live indoors, and I'm assigned to change her dressings." E.B. is about as moved as any snake in the grass could be, which is to say, not at all. "A sad story that's none of my affair, madam," he oils, "if I guess your sex correct." Ooooh, E.B. If you had any balls, Jane might stomp them off right now, if not for the saving grace of Wild Bill, who is at this moment entering the hotel. He sees the argument and asks what seems to be the problem. Charlie explains about the little girl, and E.B. inserts himself, reversing his position and saying that he feels for the girl, but that his issue is this waiting list he mentioned, and as Charlie has vacated his room, he feels it should go to one of these waiting people. "Isn't that simple fairness?" E.B. asks, all Mother Teresa style.