In her room at the Grand Central, Jane is trying to explain to the little girl with a series of gestures that should Bill come back to the hotel that night, she'll be moving her over to a pallet on the floor so that Bill can use the bed. It's sweet -- Jane's hoping against hope that her hero will be there, just so she can platonically share the room with him. She tells the little girl to go to sleep, that she's watching over her, and the child rolls over and closes her eyes.
The battered Trixie, who still has bruises covering her face, is giving Al a pedicure in his bedroom. No, that's not a euphemism, you dirty sod. Good lord. Anyway, she's shaving his corns or whatever, when he tells her not to cut too deep. "Trust," he says, giving her a significant look. "Hell of a way to operate, huh? Leaning all the ins and outs of gettin' killed." She goes on with her work and he sharply tells her again not to go too fucking deep. He looks at her face. "Every beatin'...I'm grateful for. Every fuckin' one of them," he says, reminiscing about his past. "Get all the trust beat outta you. Then you know what the fuckin' world is."
Now, even Trixie, who probably endures daily beatdowns, finds this conversation too disturbing. She is glad when Dan suddenly knocks on the door, insisting that Al is going to want to hear his report. She goes out as Dan sits down. "It's one hell of a mixed report," Dan says. All Al wants to know is if the dude is dead. "Oh, it's done," Dan tells him. "He's gone." Al asks what's the mixture, then. "He went," Dan reveals, "owning one hell of a fuckin' gold strike." He tells Al that Garret is splattered at the bottom of the ridge, and Al gives instruction that he's to ride back out and bring Brom back in at dawn.
Dan leaves Al deep in thought. He calls Trixie back in, and she dutifully comes back to sit before him. "You want the other foot?" she asks, smiling through her bruises. "Yeah," answers the man who can't trust. "Please."