All language subtitles for The Shootist 1976.mp4 ENG modified for Asians 1b3

I was delighted to see you
had a lady caller yesterday.

She asked me not
to announce her.

She said she wanted
to surprise you.

Were you surprised?

Yes I was.

Oh, these clothes, uh...

they are my
Sunday best.

I wish you would brush
them clean.

Certainly.

They're getting pretty scruffy.

Nine days on the
back of a saddle

wrapped in bedding.

Wouldn't you rather
have them cleaned?

That is the general idea.

I mean there's a new method

called dry process cleaning.

It's very good.

How long does it take?

They advertise
next-day service,

but tomorrow is Sunday.

I'm afraid I will have to
settle for the brushing

because I will need them first
thing Monday morning.

I will ask. If I can't
get them by then,

I will brush them.

I will get your ham and eggs.

Just biscuits will do.

My stomach is feeling a little
weak today.

Oh. You sure

you won't want these
for church tomorrow?

I don't think so.

You're most welcome to
accompany Gillom and me.

Maybe your church
won't welcome me.

That's a terrible
thing to say.

Doors of the church
are open to everyone.

Well, my place of worship has been
the
mountains and solitude.

No doors at all.

That's hardly the same thing.

We all need a
minister to guide us.

Well, if you think of it,

give a thought to
my soul tomorrow.

I will. I have been
praying for you.

I think Gillom has, too.

Thank you. Thank you both.

Tell me,

what did he do yesterday
that made you so angry?

It isn't what he did.

It's what he didn't do.

We have that straightened out.

You should be proud of Gillom.

He has the making of
something special.

I hope so.

I'm going to send
Reverend Saunders

to see you tomorrow.

No, thank you.

Maybe it'll make
it easier for you.

No.

Just for a few minutes.

Bond, I'm tired of people
interfering over my death

for this reason or that
or for any reason.

A man's death is about
the most private thing

in his life.

It doesn't belong to Dobkins
or Reverend Saunders

or Thibido or you.

It's mine.

I suppose that's true
of your soul, too.

My soul is the way I made it.

You reprimand me for
making judgments

with a gun barrel
poked in my face,

but it's all right for you
to judge me on hearsay.

But the hearsay fits.

Maybe I'm better than
you have already decided.

Maybe I'm no worse than
that good reverend.

Maybe you like being a gunman.

You probably prefer
the word shooter.

I don't think of
myself as either.

Oh, no. You are some
godlike creature

of infinite knowledge,
aren't you?

I am a dying man
scared of the dark.

Damn you! Damn you for
the pain you have brought

into this house.

There we are, sir.

Mr. Books.

Yes, sir?

I'm Mr. Beckum,
the undertaker, sir.

How do you do?

I hope you don't
think my stopping by

is premature, sir.

No, I admire a man
with enthusiasm.

As we say
in our profession,

the early worm gets the bird.

I, uh, admit I heard
some unfortunate things.

I'd like to express
my heartfelt regret.

All right. What is
your proposition?

I'm prepared to
preserve your corpse

using the best,
scientific methods,

a bronze coffin guaranteed
good for a century

regardless of the climate

or geological conditions,

my best hearse,

the minister
of your choice,

and the at least, uh, two mourners...

a headstone made of the
finest marble...

and a large burial plot in
a good location

suitable of your status, sir...

and perpetual care
of the grounds.

For how much?

Why, nothing, sir.
For the privilege.

No, I mean how much will
you make on the deal?

Oh, Mr. Beckum, you're
going to do to me

what they did to
John Wesley Hardin.

You are going to lay me out,

let the public look at
me for fifty cents each,

ten cents for the children.

When the curiosity is gone,

you will stick me in a hole

while you hurry to the
bank with your cash.

I assure you...

Give me a some
paper and a pencil.

You assure me?
What good is your assurance

when my veins are filled
with your damn juice?

No. Here's what
you're going to do.

First you're going
to give me fifty dollars cash.

Then early Monday morning,

you will bring me a headstone.

I want a small headstone
with this written on it.

Nothing else.

No illustrious words, no angels.
do you understand?

Mr. Books, you're a hard man.

I'm alive.

Ah, very well.

I will instuct my stonecutter

to work on the
inscription immediately.

Mr. Beckum.

The fifty dollars

Oh.

Thank you, sir.

Early worm, early worm.

That Mr. Beckum is just
what you say he is.

Well... now, how
much do I owe you?

Not one penny, Mr. Books.

Why, to watch that
performance you just gave,

I would have paid ten dollars
in a theater.

Well, I may just accept
your generosity.

Besides, I may
just see if Mr. Beckum

would like to buy some of J.B.
Books' hair.

With your permission.

Permission granted.

Good day, sir.

What the hell?

And the third man's name is...

Mike Sweeney. Do you know him?

Sure, I do. He has got
a horseless carriage.

And now for the favor
I am going to ask you.

You just tell me, sir.
Anything at all.

Don't dive in untill you
know how deep it is.

Today's the twenty seventh, isn't it?

Yes, sir.

Now, that is Jack Pulford,
Jay Cobb, and Mike Sweeney.

Tomorrow morning early,

I want you to go to each
one of them and tell them

that I will be at the Metropole

at elevin On Monday morning
the twenty ninth,

and don't tell any of them
that you've told the others.

Mister Cobb is still in jail.

Yeah, well, tell him anyway.

Think you can do that for me?

Well, I know I can,

but, uh, Mother is going
to be angry

if I don't go to
church in the morning.

You can go to church first.

I telephoned Moses.

You can ride my horse out
to the Sweeney farm.

Yes, sir.

Thank you and...

and good night.

Son of a bitch.

Don't cuss.

Yes, sir.

You know that kind of
music gets on my nerves,

especially on Sunday.

Sorry.

Mum, are you angry
at Mr. Books?

Why? What did he say?

Nothing. It's just...

Mum, I'm sorry.

I must go do some
errands for Mr. Books.

I promised him.

Gillom.

Gillom.

I will be back soon.
Soon as I can.

Oh! Oh!

What happened? Are
you all right?

I slipped in the tub.

Let me help you.

Hell.

Come on, now. Hang on to me.
That's it.

Now sit on the
edge of the tub.

I'll get you another towel.

Damn!

John Bernard, you
swear too much.

The hell I do.

Put your arm around
my shoulder.

Why didn't you ask
me to help you

in the first place?

I couldn't.

Why not?

I promised you I
would not be a burden.

But you are, so let us
just forget about that.

I sure as hell am.

Oh, let me sit down.

Oh, sit down for a minute
while I catch my breath.

Oh...

well, we finally made
it through a full day

without having a fight.

Well, we have not seen
each other all day.

You are right there.

You know, Bond,

you are such a real
lady on the outside.

You are full of vim and
vinegar on the inside.

I just never met
anybody like you.

You are running low.

I better call doctor Hostetler
and order some more.

No. This will do.

Oh.

That Morning newspaper.

I have perused newspapers
all my life.

Never got the full
information out of one.

I bought this the
day I arrived,

and I said to myself,

I'm going to read every
word, and when I'm finished,

"I will know for a fact
exactly what happened

on January twenty second in
the year nineteen hundred and one."

It was an important
day in my life,

and now I know.

Would you do me a favor

and give this an honorable
incineration in my stove?

You are getting ready
to do something.

What makes you say that?

This...

dry cleaning...

laudanum...

haircut.

I want you to promise me something.

Tomorrow when you see me in
all my laundered splendor

and my Sunday best clothes,

I want you to promise
there will be no questions...

no surmises, no woman's intuition.

All curiosity stops
right here and now.

Promise me?

And no tears, Bond.

Mr. Books!

In here, Gillom.

Oh, so I see.

No, you don't see.

I was helping Mr. Books
out of the bathtub.

What?

You must be hungry.

No, Mum. I'm fine.

I promise.

Thank you.

Well, sir, I did it.

Good. How did you get
along with my horse?

Oh, he's a great horse.

You should have seen the look
on the Marshal's face

when I rode up to the jail.

He must have thought I was you,
coming to free Mr. Cobb.

Hardly me.

Which is just about what I did do

because Mr. Thibido is going to
release Mr.Cobb

long enough to meet you.

Good.

You will never guess how Mr. Cobb reacted.

I bet he jumped with joy.

He became all white,
scared to death.

Oh?

Now, Mr. Pulford was happy.

He really respects you.
He told me so.

And he sure was polite.
He said, uh,

I eagerly await the honor...
and the privilege

of letting him try his
luck at my faro table.

We will have to give it a try.

Now, how about the other man...
Mr. Sweeney?

You watch out for him, Mr. Books.

That man is mean,
and he hates you.

Well, we will see if we can
clear that up tomorrow.

Sir, what is...

Thank you. We both should
get some sleep.

Can I ask you something?

I am too tired.
We will talk tomorrow.

But I have to be out before sunrise,

deliver the milk
while Cobb is in jail.

Then we will both have a busy morning.

Before you go...

there is something I want to give you.

No, sir. No. I won't accept pay.

And I would not offer it, Gillom.

But you like my horse, don't you?

Best horse I ever rode.

Well, he is yours. I bought him back.

Here is the bill of sale.

Now let me get some sleep.

Sir?

Yeah?

When you asked me to do this,

I didn not realize...

and... and I just hope that nothing...

Just take good care of my horse.

Good night, sir.

Come in.

We got the headstone.
Mr. Beckum...

Good. Just put it there on the bed.

Beckum said he did the best he could,

but there was not much time.

Yeah, well, that will be alright.

Well, that is no good,

they left the date off.

That will be alright.

Yes, sir.

Thank you.

Early for you, isn't it?

Yeah, well, I am
expecting somebody.

Bring me a cup of coffee,
will you, Murray?

Sure.

John Bernard?

Oh.

How grand you look.

Thank you, Bond.

That dry cleaning process
is very good, isn't it?

Yeah, but it has an odour.

Well, that's the naphtha.

Oh, this is my birthday.

I, uh, have not been to a
saloon for a long time,

and I thought I would get a
drink and celebrate.

Happy birthday.

Thank you.

You have a beautiful day for it.

It is what we call a false spring.

Goodbye, Mrs. Rogers.

Goodbye, Mr. Books.

Well, boy, here is your big chance.

Fame and fortune awaits.

After I put that old
man out of his misery,

I am going to get you.

Sure, you will.

Don't wet your pants.

Marshal Thibido! May I
see you for a moment?

What is going on?

Mr. Dobkins, this is law business,

not newspaper business.

Mr. Adolph Ochs is the publisher
of the New York Times.

He has asked me for an article

on how city officials are reacting

to the presence of our famous shooter.

I was thinking of doing a
series of stories on you.

Let's get off the street.

You tell them my name is
Mr. Thibido with an "H."

Good morning.

Good morning, Mr. Books.

You don't give a man much time
to climb aboard this thing.

I have a schedule to keep.

Good morning.

Good morning, sir.

Isn't it a beautiful day?

It sure is.

It is what we call a false spring.

Yes, sir?

Glass.

Mr. Sweeney...

want to try your luck?

stop!

Friend... this is for you.

What?

Make you a little more comfortable.

Well, sir,
my old bones thank you.

I sure hope the right
man comes along.

Good morning, sir.

Good morning.

This is my birthday.

Give me the best in the house.

Yes, sir.

Thank you, sir.

And I will tell you
that was for Albert!

Look out!