Wild Bill

(woman)? What a fellowship

What a joy divine

Leaning on the everlasting arms

What a blessed peace

What a joy is mine

Leaning on the everlasting arms

Leaning on Jesus

Leaning on Jesus

(man) His funeral was

on a blistering hot August afternoon,

just outside the town of Deadwood.

I suppose there was a rough justice to it,

the way he met his end after sending

so many others to early graves.

It didn't make the moment easier

on any of his friends.

I don't know why he never slept in my bed

sinced he come to Deadwood.

Only got interested once.

The timing was just wrong.

Too much had happened to him

before he got here.

I was awful attached to him.

All of us were. He had

that kind of effect on people.

I got a feeling maybe in some ways

you knew him best, Charley.

(glass smashes)

You know, I don't mind you shootin'

glasses off of my dog's head, Marshal,

but fondlin' him like that,

you'll ruin him for fightin'.

That dog's bred for fightin'.

You oughta understand that.

You've had more fights than anybody.

(Charley) He fashioned himself as

just an ordinary man, in no way special.

But, of course, that was a deception.

By luck or design, it had fallen to him

to play the hero's part,

and, to the very end,

he embraced his fate.

Two damn weeks,

ain't a damn sight of a buffalo.

Never thought it possible.

How's a man supposed to make a livin'?

(tribal chanting)

(horse whinnies)

That's a funeral platform.

Must be on some kind of vigil

for the dead Indian next to him.

(speaks Sioux)

Says he's a Sioux,

named He Who Whistles.

He's a chief.

That's his wife lying there next to him.

They had to leave a tribe.

They couldn't find no buffalo.

Figured since he'd failed his people

and he'd failed his wife,

he had to go off

and find his own medicine.

Said he had a dream.

Had to fight a white-eye with long hair.

That looks to be you, Bill.

What the hell does this whistler

want to fight me for?

His religion.

He wins, his people live.

He's gonna hang your scalp

on a lodge pole.

Tell him I'm sorry

about his woman and his tribe.

(speaks Sioux)

Tell him thanks, and I'll be on my way.

(war cry)

He wants me to show some colour.

Fine.

(c*cks rifle)

- Don't kill him, Bill.

- Man knows what he wants!

Bad luck to kill an Indian

in a religious frame of mind!

He chose it!

He must have got more than 20 hides

out there. Winter prime.

Them hides'll fetch a dollar apiece in

Omaha. Let's run him off. What say you?

First feller who shows up today gonna

buy a drink, and you're gonna run him off.

NEBRASKA TERRITORY

Whisky.

It'd be awfully neighbourly

if you was to buy me a drink.

I generally only buy whisky

for my friends.

I don't see no reason why a man

come in here and insult me.

Watch his gun!

Oh! I'm shot!

You oughta understand,

you ever touch another man's hat...

TOMMY DRUM'S SALOON

HAYS CITY, 1870

"Ma, Ma, who's my pa?"

"Wild Bill Hickok. Ha-ha-ha."

Please, Mr Wild Bill. Don't shoot me now.

I ain't done nothin' wrong.

- Don't shoot me, Mr Wild Bill.

- What's this about?

I kicked some drunk soldier's ass around

about a week ago. Threw him in jail.

Figure these are his friends.

- Maybe you oughta apologise...

- I don't apologise!

Not to you or anybody else. Not ever.

Shouldn't touch another man's hat.

I ain't wearin' no pistols.

(woman screams)

Aaaagh!

Take 'em, Bill. They're gonna kill you.

(woman screams)

(soldier) Damn you! Kill him!

(band plays "The Yellow Rose of Texas")

ABILENE, KANSAS

(whooping)

Yee-ha!

Yee-ha!

(silence)

- Just funning, Marshal.

- Where are you from?

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