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"How goes it, Montana?"
Mr. Hickok's voice is surprising enough that Seth's next strike of the hammer glances off the nail, bypassing his nearby thumb only by the grace of God. Welcome enough, though, that Seth's not entirely sure the sting of it landing wouldn't have been worth it.
He looks down from his perch on the yet-unfinished second floor, adjusts the brim of his hat. "You know what they say about Rome."
"And the fellow who fiddled at its burning?"
"Regarding the length of its construction," Seth says, amusement sitting at the corners of his mouth. He reaches for the next beam, still smelling freshly of the trees where it had been recently felled. "Slow and steady, that is, Mr. Hickok."
"Given we weren't lookin' at aught but a tent here a few mornings back," Mr. Hickok says, tilting his head at where the scaffolding—and Seth himself—ascends, "I'm not sure slow is the word I'd use. Steady, though—" Mr. Hickok's eyes move around the building before settling on Seth, purposeful and weighty. "Well, now that does seem to fit. 'Sides, I thought we'd talked about this 'Mr. Hickok' business. 'Bill' is more than fine."
"Old habits." He wipes the dust and sweat creased into his palms against his thighs, clears his throat. It's only early evening, but a chill is starting to creep into the valley, to dry the damp at the back of his neck and against his spine into something uncomfortable. "You headed to Nuttal's then, Bill?"
His steps had seemed angled in that direction, but when he looks over at the waiting establishment, it's with a look of dissatisfaction. "For want of a better end to my evening. What about yourself, Montana? Even the Lord laid down his hammer once in a while."
Seth allows himself a brief smile. From anyone but Bill, the comparison would rankle him; here, though, he understands there's nothing but respect in it, a verbal tilt of the hat. "With greater accomplishments under his belt. Besides, I'm hardly known for my patience."
"Could you be enticed into a reprieve?"
"Pending on the temptation."
"How about a glass of whiskey?" Bill asks, easy. "Charlie's already bound for Cheyenne, industriously pursuing that shipping route of his, but your partner's welcome to join. I've got a mid-shelf bottle back at the Grand I've been saving."
Seth nods over to the tent pitched alongside their burgeoning store. "Sol's bedded down for the evening, on expectation of my making expeditious progress before he wakes to relieve me in the morning."
"That a no, then?"
He adjusts his hat again, noting—or perhaps just becoming aware of—the line of sweat at his temple. A mighty temptation indeed. "A quick one, perhaps. —And the matter kept between us, lest Sol should think I'm shirking my duty."
Bill puts a hand over his heart, and Seth trains his expression into something a little less schoolboy as he stows his tools and descends the ladder, matching Bill step for step as they cross the thoroughfare.
—
Seth removes his hat once they're in the room, setting it on his lap as he settles himself into a chair. Bill digs through a trunk at the foot of the bed before emerging victorious with a bottle and two glasses, and anyone's guess whether it's dust from age or the road that's dirtying the label. In the corners and on the dresser, Seth can see evidence of Bill's companion, Jane, and the orphaned child, but seemingly few of Bill's own personal effects; whatever footprint he's leaving seems deliberately small.
Bill pours, and Seth accepts the glass before clinking it against Bill's in a toast.
"To this whole place not coming down around our fucking ears," Bill says, sweeping his hand to indicate the camp entire.
"Think it'll take quite a few more toasts to assure such a lofty ambition," Seth says, then hears how that must've sounded. "Not that I'm making any presumptions—"
"Ease up, Montana," Bill says, waving the discomfort away. "You've got a seat at my table whenever you want it, and I'd be willing to hazard a similar claim for Charlie."
Likely the whiskey that's responsible for warming the back of his neck. "Thank you. That's a benevolence I'm not sure I've deserved."
"Chalk it up to selfishness, then, if it'll sit easier with you. My having identified you as a man worth knowing, and motivated to keep such a fellow around, being as they are here in thin supply."
"I've met plenty who'd argue that point with you, regarding the value of my character. Far likelier for fellows to curse the day our paths crossed."
"And what number of those on their way to face legal judgment? I'd wager comfortably on it being the larger sum." Seth concedes with a nod, and Bill smiles. "Being a man who's made some measure of a name for himself on the basis of his marksmanship, and speed on the draw, and the like—none of it's worth a damn without a semblance of judgment to go with it. Now, Charlie might argue the point, might point to my reluctance for prospecting or insistence on wiling away hours at Nuttal's poker table as evidence of its absence, but that's a different sort of jugment. Ambition's not my bag—certainly not the way he'd hope I'd have it, directed toward some greater purpose.
"No, that's never been my strong suit—but I will credit myself with the sort of judgment it takes to read a man. The thing about pulling fast, often pulling first, it's the sort of claim folks like to test, and I never assume up against a stranger that I'm guaranteed to come out ahead. Would have even less sanity than I'm credited with if I was spending every moment with my finger on the trigger and head turned to look over my shoulder. But I am ready when those moments come, as they so often do, and while I could chalk a fair share of that up to luck, I'll cite the rest for having an eye as to the measure of a man—which is how I know you're one worth keeping. It's the same judgment that sees me traveling with Jane and Charlie, and—even for whatever strikes you might count against them—their loyalty and natures have never once been called into question, not where it matters. I'd apply that same judgment to Mr. Star, and would extend it further—without hesitation—to yourself, Montana."
Seth's mouth is dry, and the whiskey seems an ill-advised solution. Still, he drinks.
"That's kind of you, Bill," he eventually settles on, insufficient though it seems. "Kinder I'm sure than I deserve."
It seems uncharacteristically foolish to think that Bill's words are something he'll treasure—the sort of rose-colored sentiment Seth figured himself for having grown out of as a youth—but he will. Undeserved as they may feel, particularly given their owner. With his hat removed and no brim to adjust, Seth smooths down the hair at the back of his head, though he's sure it's still laying as flat as when he'd run a comb over it this morning; it seems the safest use for his hands.
"Wouldn't necessarily consider the truth a kindness," Bill says, "and more often than not, just the opposite. Still, I hope you take what I've said with all the sincerity intended. You're a rare one, Montana. Given where we find ourselves, the dearth of worthwhile company, the abundance of lip-flapping fools, I wonder if it wasn't maybe something more than happenstance that brought our paths together. Not to say we're pieces on God's chess board or anything so foolish—and pardon my words, should that minister hear me blaspheming—but something akin, I'd reckon, to you meeting your partner, Mr. Star. Kindred spirits and the like, and never mind how my younger self would laugh at me now to hear such talk."
"He could take his amusement at my expense, as well, for certainly I appreciate the rarity of such friendships." Particularly given that Seth has had similar thoughts of his own, and with greater frequency since his and Sol's arrivals in Deadwood. And, truly, where would he be without Sol Star? How but by the grace of God or some related act of divinity did he manage to luck into a partner so steadfast and reliable, unyielding as bedrock, forgiving as clay. Patient with Seth's inevitable tempers, ready with the right words to restore his calm—or at least, keep the waters from turning tidal. What did he do to deserve a friendship like Sol's? Too fortunate an occurrence for luck, too weighty to attribute to chance.
And—yes, much the same for the feeling of meeting Bill, as well. A familiarity to the relationship that Seth couldn't have put words to until it came about, corners and edges to his own figure that he didn't discover the shapes of until Bill's own slotted against them, side by side; not a perfect fit, but damn close to it. Kindred spirits. A phrase with room enough to fit so much under it, for surely what he feels for Sol and what he feels for Bil aren't the same—overlap between them, certainly, but where Sol is as close to him a brother as his own, Bill is—
Seth cuts his own thoughts there, as quick as turning a spigot. What he feels for Bill. Foolish beyond measure, he is. By God, if he's blushing, he'll take his leave and ride out of camp never to be seen again, and may still yet never live it down.
Then again, given the way Bill is looking at him, weighing some of the words Bill had bestowed upon him, maybe not so foolish. Or, maybe, the height of foolishness to even entertain the notion.
Still, whichever the answer, Seth's not sure he's ready to find out tonight. Where he next steers the conversation is to considerably calmer waters—politics, religion, and the like. And the moment when he goes for the whiskey to pour himself another glass, reaches out to pass it back and Bill's fingertips slide against his—lingering, even—well. Something to consider when considering doesn't feel quite so dangerous.
—
The tent is dark when he returns, and though Seth is certain to cause no disturbance as he unlaces his boots, it seems no sooner that his ass has landed on the end of his bed before Sol is stirring in the cot adjacent, reaching over for the lantern.
"It's alright," Seth says as the match strikes and light flares up. "Shouldn't've wasted it. I'll be joining you in a moment."
"What time is it?"
"Close to sunup."
"Lucky, then. I hadn't planned on sleeping much longer." He glances sideways at Seth, now nearly down to his underclothes. "I did get up earlier to take a piss."
"Right. I'll make sure Merrick knows to include it in tomorrow's paper."
"I didn't see you working on the store, I mean," Sol says. Then, right on the heels of it, "Not that I expect you to be laboring all hours of the evening, but—well, you know yourself, Seth. It's rare for you to say you'll be at something, and then not be at it."
Seth is half-turned away, folding his clothes onto the top of his trunk. Lucky, maybe, that Sol can't see him when he says, "No, I was—having a drink. With Bill. Mr. Hickok."
"The two of you seem to get along well."
From anyone else, the statement would feel like an accusation. Swearengen with all his bald-faced wonderings at whether the two of them are in league, silent partners looking to steal the camp out from under him. (Later, much later, Seth with his hands fisted into Jack McCall's lapels and McCall, the absolute fucking coward, sneering while he asks Seth why he's crying.)
None of that from Sol, though, nothing but the simple nature of observation. The two of you seem to get along well. No question underneath it, either, as far as Seth can hear, though it's not as if Sol would be out of line for asking. But, no, just an observation, and the fact that it irks Seth, the bite of bristles running wrong against the grain, is, as always, more an indictment of himself than any fault of Sol.
His own damnable temper that there's the hint of bite in his voice as he answers what Sol wasn't asking. "It's nothing that'll affect business, if that's your concern."
Sol's brows draw together a little. "Shit, Seth, credit me for a little less heartlessness than that. Whatever you think I was getting at, I wasn't."
"But you were wondering."
"I wonder about a lot of things," Sol says, flatly even. "Most often about Trixie, before you go flattering your sense of importance. I wonder about my parents, too, and whether I'd be better served by a wider hat brim. And, yes, sometimes I wonder about you, Seth. But then I put those wonderings away, because it's your business, and you'll let me know if you'd like my opinion on it."
It's true. Sol won't pry—least not until it comes to a point when prying feels like a necessity. So why is Seth pushing when Sol is willing to let it alone? It's not Sol's responsibility to hold Seth to account for his transgressions, even if they've yet to be actually transgressed. Seth exhales. "Well, maybe this is me asking. You wouldn't be altogether mistaken, if you had been wondering." Sol nods at him, but doesn't interrupt, all the restraint Seth doesn't have. "Nothing should come of it, though. Nothing will come of it. This is all speculation anyway, on his inclinations, let alone—he's married, for Chrissakes."
Sol makes an mhm noise that could mean anything, but which Seth hears as, so are you .
"I knew what I was doing when I proposed to Martha," Seth says as Sol lets him argue against himself. "Vows made of obligation, one might say, but vows all the same. I never intended to marry her and leave those promises hollow. I don't plan on starting now."
Sol makes another of those thoughtful sounds. Seth's tired of not hearing the words underneath. "Alright, speak. I know you've more to say on the matter than that, than nothing."
"You were doing an honorable thing, marrying her."
"I didn't do it for the honor."
"I know."
"But not doing it for the honor doesn't mean I wouldn't still be dishonoring myself were I to disregard my vows."
"I know that, too."
"Dammit, Sol," Seth says, frustration spilling out around the edges. "Speak plainly. Please."
"I don't believe your brother would want you to set aside love for the remainder of your days on account of his passing. I believe he'd respect the choice you made, would rest easy knowing you're looking after his wife and boy, but I don't think he'd ever ask such sacrifice of you. I think he'd want more for the both of you than a marriage of duty."
Spoken plainly indeed. "All that assuming there is not, and will not come to be, love between Martha and myself."
"There may be yet. We both know there isn't now."
"And assuming I would have married for love elsewise."
"I think you would have."
Because he feels too keenly not to be a romantic? Sol crediting his flares of temper as inverses to equal heights of affection? Maybe he's right. "Even so, I'm nowhere close to saying I love Hickok."
"Never presumed you were."
No, but likely Sol wouldn't have taken this tact unless he believed it to be relevant further down the road. Too nascent for love now, but all the green-bud implications of love that could come. "Christ, this is all so fucking complicated."
"You don't need a marriage to take care of Martha and William."
"Your solution is divorce?"
"I wouldn't suggest it if I thought it'd reflect poorly on either of you—particularly not her, and I don't believe it will, not given the circumstances around your engagement."
"Now you presume the kindness of others."
"You asked me to speak my piece," Sol says, cool, "and I've said it. You can do your duty to her without martyring yourself. We both know you'd never leave either of them out in the cold, wedded or not, and from where I sit, this marriage does neither of you any favors. Not to mention the sort of life in store for the both of them when they arrive here."
"Where were all these opinions on my way to the altar?"
Sol shrugs. "Would've shared them if I had any notion of you being receptive. But you were committed, and I could see your thinking then, just as time enough has passed and the terrain is enough changed for me to think you might be open to a different way of thinking."
"Changing terrain—meaning Bill?"
"In part."
How is it Sol seems to see a slipknot where Seth is looking at nothing but a mass of tangles. "You understand there's a great deal more complicating that particular issue beyond either of our respective marriages?"
"I do, but that the sentiment is present feels the central thing. Given your respect for him—trust, intrigue, attraction even—who's to say what else may follow."
"Almost certainly nothing."
"Perhaps, but as it stands, you leave yourself no opportunity of finding out.
"Now—" Sol pushes back his own blanket and rises from the cot, beginning to dress nearly as soon as he's standing. "As much as I enjoy sorting through the complexities of your various romantic entanglements—"
"Entanglements," Seth snorts.
"—The sun looks to be about rising, and I believe it's my turn to contribute to the raising of our store. I'll leave you the light, but I'd rest before too long." And with a nod, Sol exits the tent, leaving Seth alone with his thoughts, conflicted as they may be.
Allowing himself to imagine an unmarried future—to give fuller rein to his own inclinations without it immediately making a liar of him—is tempting, but perhaps temptation in the way of a drug, a numbing indulgence that serves no benefit but his own brief pleasure. On another consideration, Martha is a good woman, and deserves a man not just to attend to her, but to love her as keenly as what she'd known from her first husband; setting aside all question of honor or duty, the person for that role is not Seth. Or is that merely a neat excuse to assuage the guilt of his own present affections?
One thing he does know for certain, he's fucking exhausted. Seth gets up enough to douse the light, then retreats back into the warmth and comfort of his bed, the near-black closing around him soothingly as he lays his head against the pillow. For the moment, the only thing he can attend to is sleep. As for what else may come—be it another drink with Bill, penning a letter to Martha—it will have to wait. No decision needs to be made just yet.