"You don't want to be prodding him that-away," he says; "what you want to do is humor him along. You want to lead him so close up to the Pearly Gates that he can hear the hinges creaking; that'll make him see things different," he says. "That'll scare him out of this delusion of his that he wants to be a runt angel."
"I suppose then you think you could cure him yourself?" asks one of the gang.
"In one easy lesson," says Good Sam, speaking very confident. "All I ask from you gents is for one of you to let me borrow his six-gun off of him for a little while and then everybody agree to stand back and not interfere. If possible I'd like for it to be a big unhealthy-looking six-gun," he says.
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."