u go on into the print shop with Isaiah.
- Yes, ma'am.
Well, we'll unmantle the printing press...
and dust off the adjectives.
Thank you.
Look, Mama,
see what an Indian just gave me.
Cim, how many times have I told you
not to talk to those dirty, filthy Indians?
Here, take this into the kitchen.
Be careful, now.
Don't drop it, and come back
and help Mother.
All right, Mama.
Safety pins, collar buttons...
needles, thread, thimbles,
crochet cotton...
celluloid collars, safety pins,
crochet cotton, needles.
Here comes that little shrimp again.
Let's see how he feels today.
Hey, Sol! Come here!
I wanna buy a little fancy lace!
Come on over here. Come on.
...cotton, needles, thread...
Come on, Sol,
I wanna buy my gal a bustle.
- How much for a bustle cover?
- Bring me a pair of tights.
Safety pins, cotton gloves, needles.
Please, don't start, please.
Please don't, mister. Please don't.
Please, mister. Please, don't.
- Bring him here.
- Please. Please. Please don't.
- Well, howdy, Mr. Levy.
- Please don't do it, mister.
- Please, mister, don't...
- That's all right. That's all right.
- Let's you and me have a drink.
- No, thank you. No.
Please don't do it, mister.
I don't want any. Thanks.
- What? You don't want it?
- No.
Be a real pal and have a drink. Come on.
No.
- What do you think about...
- Where you going, there?
Where you going, there?
Come here, you little runt, and have a...
Come up here.
Please, mister.
Take a drink.
Please don't, mister. Please.
When I tell them to take a drink,
they drink, don't they?
Well, they better.
You're a rough, eh, Yountis?
Just whip your weight on wildcats, huh?
Who asked you?
Come on, Sol. You're all right, huh? Sure.
That's their idea of a joke.
You go ahead about your business.
- They won't be bothering you none, now.
- Thanks, Mr. Cravat.
Thank you.
Threatening to make Osage
the terror of the Southwest...
as in the old days of the Cimarron, huh?
- Now, you as the editor...
- Yeah, me as editor...
I'm interviewing citizens of note
regarding their sentiments.
- What's yours?
- Stick to your lawn.
Come on, Yountis. You know
what I'm aiming at. Who killed Paigler?
I'm advising you to keep your mouth shut.
Or the next time,
it won't be your sombrero.
Thanks for the sentiment. Mine is...
Cherokee death cry. Means, you or him.
The second button on his coat
is about the spot for his wishbone...
maybe a couple of inches higher.
Get your real-estate papers filed all right?
Yancey, dear.
You're not going to bother anymore
about that Paigler man, are you?
Don't you be worrying your pretty head
about that.
Oh, please. What does it matter?
He's dead.
Maybe he did shoot himself.
Besides, you've got Cim and me
to think of.
Paigler was shot in the back
trying to do what I want to do:
Make a model empire
out of this new Oklahoma country.
No, sir, I'll show them first crack.
The Oklahoma Wigwam
prints all the news, all the time...
knowing no law except the law of God...
and the government
of these United States.
Say, that's a pretty good slogan.
Top of the page,
just ahead of the editorial column.
Yancey, let them alone.
I don't want you to be killed.
- I don't.
- Honey...
I'm gonna clean up the Paigler killing,
or I won't be alive myself.
You don't wanna lose me just yet, do you?
No, dearest.
There he is.
- Howdy.
- Howdy, ma'am.
Yancey, our