They dispense with pleasantries. "Hey, I know you," McCall slurs. "I know you, too," Bullock barely grits out through his teeth in the cold. McCall, who I suppose feels he has nothing to lose, goes for the heart. "I suppose after bumrushing me out of your fine fuckin' hardware establishment," he says, "you didn't see this coming, did you?" Good one, Jack. Bullock is not amused. "I halfway did, you droop-eyed cocksucker," he says, much to McCall's chagrin, who apparently feels like this is the time to split hairs. "I was born droop-eyed, all right?" he says, all defensive. "And who do you blame for the rest of the fuckin' mess?" Bullock retorts, and I begin to wonder when this fight is going to move off the playground. The answer is never, because, finally taunted into it, Bullock goes for McCall's throat. "What are you crying for?" McCall says, barely able to breathe. "Did you love Hickok so much? Was you sweethearts? Did he stick his dick up your ass?" Whoa, now, Jackie. You wouldn't understand the Proulxian man-love that dares not speak its stoic name, obviously. Don't even try. Saving him from certain throttling, Jack's legal counsel now appears and Bullock, with reluctance, leaves. The lawyer, who has a suspiciously small head under his huge top hat, pulls up a chair in front of McCall. "Well, I'm a hard case for you, counselor," McCall says. "And no mistake, everyone in there saw me shoot him." Smallhead smirks, like the shark he truly is. "If you'll let me set our strategy," he says. "I don't think we'll dispute what people saw." McCall: "Well, then, I guess you're here to break me out." Oh, but the shark has the last laugh. "Son," he says, leaning in, "did James Butler Hickok ever kill a relative of yours?" McCall isn't getting it. "Did he ever kill a brother of yours, or the like?" the lawyer asks, leading. McCall must have really had the air choked out of him just now not to see all, because the counselor has to pretty much lay it out for him. "I'm asking you...if what happened in that saloon," he says slowly, "was vengeance for the death of a family member...possibly a brother in Abilene, or the like." Light slowly dawns in Jack's dirty face. "A brother," he responds, "in Abilene..." The shark pats his knee. Now they're on the same page.
Speaking of evil, Cy's henchman (who I have finally figured out is Glenn Morshower, a tireless character actor who has been in all sorts of stuff, including such TWoP favorites as 24 and, inexplicably, Charmed, pretty much always playing cops) is now doing his dirty work out in the woods. He rolls Andy's body off the Bella Union sled and leans over him with a guilty face. "Look," he says, "I'm sorry as hell about all this. Sorry as hell." Nice, but you're leaving a fever-crazed man to die in the woods with his scabs and blisters and whatnot -- don't sit at home at night waiting on the Nobel committee to call. Andy is looking bad as the goon continues that despite Cy's orders, he's not going to burn the fucking blanket, and by the way, "fuck Cy." Andy is...less than cognizant, so less than understanding as the guy leaves, declaring that this is not his fault. He rides away, leaving the dying man begging for God's merciful deliverance.