Deadwood, Season Two

Hearst:
[slaps the wall of his room in the Grand Central Hotel] These walls are coming down.

Wolcott:
They'll be your walls soon.

Hearst:
Ever since I was a child in Missouri I've been down ever hole I could find.

Wolcott:
Boy-the-earth-talks-to.

Hearst:
Yeah, I've told you, that's what the Indians call me.

Wolcott:
Yes.

Hearst:
It talks to you too, Francis, I know. Our time together, your hearing has stayed keen. But this gambler Tolliver, who was our agent for buying the claims has spoken to me about you. He says that you've killed women. Prostitutes. That he has disposed of the bodies for you.

Wolcott:
[stunned, fumbles putting out his cigar]

Hearst:
WELL!?

Wolcott:
When I was in Campeche, you wrote a letter on my behalf.

Hearst:
To the Jefe de Policia.

Wolcott:
"I am aware of Mr. Wolcott's difficulty. You will find me personally grateful for any adjustments you may make in his case." What did you think that was about?

Hearst:
I didn't think about it. You were my agent in Mexico! You had many responsibilities. You asked me for the letter and I wrote it!

Wolcott:
As when the earth talks to you particularly, you never ask its reasons.

Hearst:
I don't need to know why I'm lucky!

Wolcott:
What if the earth talks to us to get us to arrange its amusements?

Hearst:
That sounds like goddamned nonsense to me.

Wolcott:
Suppose to you it whispers, "You are king over me. I exist to flesh your will."

Hearst:
Nonsense.

Wolcott:
And to me... "There is no sin." It happened in Mexico and now it's happened here.

Hearst:
We must end our connection, you understand that, Francis. Make a severance you think is fair. You know I won't quibble. Does some spirit overtake you? Is that what you mean by the "talk"?

Wolcott:
No.

Hearst:
It tells me where the color is. That's all it tells me. My God.