Well, that sounded plausible enough. So Rawhide passes over his belt, which it’s got an old-fashioned single-action Colt’s swinging in its holster, and Good Sam buckles this impressive chunk of hardware around him and meanders back to where Little Al is humped up with his shoulders heaving and his face in his hands and a little puddle forming on the bar from the salty tears oozing out of his system and running down his chin and falling off.
“My poor brother,” says Good Sam, in a very gentle way like a missionary speaking, “are you really in earnest about feeling a deep desire to quit this here vale of tears?”
“I sure am,” says Little Al; “it’s the one ambition I’ve got left.”
“And I don’t blame you none for it neither,” says Good Sam. “What’s life but a swindle anyhow—a brace game—that nobody ever has beaten yet? And look at the fix you’re in—too big for a midget in a side-show and too little for other laudable purposes. No sir, I don’t blame you a bit. And just to show you my heart’s in the right place I’m willing to accommodate you.”
“That’s all I’m craving,” says Little Al. “Just show me how—ars’nic or a gun or the noose or a good sharp butcher-knife, I ain’t particular. If it wasn’t for the river being frozen over solid I wouldn’t be worrying you for that much help,” he says.
“Now hold on, listen here,” says Good Sam, “you mustn’t do it that way—not with your own hands.”
“How else am I going to do it, then?” says Little Al, acting surprised.
“Why, I’m going to do it for you myself,” says Good Sam, “and don’t think I’m putting myself out on your account neither. Why, it won’t be any trouble—you might almost say it’ll be a pleasure to me. Because if you should go and commit suicide you’ll be committing a mortal sin that you won’t never get forgiveness for. But if I plug you, you ain’t responsible, are you? I’ve already had to kill seven or eight fellows in my time,” says this amiable liar of a Good Sam, “or maybe the correct count is nine; I forget sometimes. Anyhow, one more killin’ on my soul won’t make a particle of difference with me. And to bump off a party that’s actually aching to be done so, one that’ll thank me with his last expiring breath for the favor—why, brother,” he says, “it will be a pleasure! Just come on with me,” he says, “and we can get this little matter over and done with in no time at all.”
With that he leads the way to a little shack of a room that Billy Grimm’s got behind his saloon. Al follows along but I observe he’s quit weeping all of a sudden and likewise it looks to me like he’s lost or is losing considerable of his original enthusiasm. He’s beginning to sort of hang back and lag behind by the time they’ve got to the doorway, and he casts a sort of pitiful imploring look backwards over his shoulder; but Good Sam takes him by the arm and leads him on in and closes the door behind them. The rest of us wait a minute and then tiptoe up to the door and put our ears close to the crack and listen.
First we hear a match being struck. “Now then, that’s the ticket,” we hear Good Sam say very cheerfully; “we don’t want to take any chances on messing this job up by trying to do it in the dark.” So from that we know he’s lighted the coal-oil lamp that’s in there. Then he says: “Wait till I open this here back window, so’s to let the smoke out—these old black powder cartridges are a blamed nuisance, going off inside a house.” There’s a sound of a sash being raised. “Suppose you sit down here on this beer box and make yourself comfortable,” is what Good Sam says next. There’s a scuffling sound from Little Al’s feet dragging across the floor. “No, that won’t hardly do,” goes on Good Sam, “sitting down all caved in the way you are now, I’d only gut-shoot you and probably you’d linger and suffer and I’d have to plug you a second time. I’d hate to botch you all up, I would so.