"There ain't much, Cig," he whined; "---- little; an here we are locked in! By the hoky-poky, I'd like to git hold o' that brakey's throat! I'd squeeze it, take my tip for that. An', by gosh, if them steers kill us, he'll croak for it, an' don' cher forget it!" "Steers!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean, Fatty!" "Wy, don' cher know them steers is right under us?" "Well, what of that?" "W'y, they've got horns--big ones, too." "Well, what of that, Fatty?" "Wy, you fool, we ain't got any." "But, Fatty, what does that matter?" "Matter! Matter! Ain' cher got no sense? Don' cher know nothin'? Ain' cher never heard o' steers hookin' a bloke before? You must be a tenderfoot." Then I grasped the situation. We were at the mercy of those Texas steers! Soon I heard Fatty saying, in a most pitiful voice: "Cig, I guess we'd better say our little prayers right now, 'cause if we get to sleep we'll forget all about it. So you begin, 'n' while yer chewin' the rag I'll watch the hay." He wanted me to pray, and actually thought that that was the only thing that would save us. He always was a religious fellow in great emergencies, and his scheme did not much surprise me; but as I knew of no prayer fitted for such an occasion, I told him so, and added that even if I did know one I should prefer to leave it unsaid, considering the circumstances. "We had no business letting the brakey lock us in here, and you know it, too. So we'll have to get out the best way we can." This bravery was a little faked, but I thought it best to keep as cool as possible, for Fatty was continually fuming and scolding. And every few minutes he would feel around in the hay, and then say, most forlornly: "Cig, them pokers is gettin' nearer. Prepare to die." Once I thought he was joking, and told him to stop if he thought he was scaring me. "I ain't tryin' to scare you," he whined; "I'm simply tellin' you the truth." This was certainly alarming, and I almost confessed my fear. But I managed to control myself, and persevered in my artificial boldness. "Well, Fatty, let's die game, anyhow. If the horns come up here we can kick at them, and perhaps the steers will be frightened. Can't tell, you know." "No, that won't work," he replied hopelessly, and he measured the hay once more. This time his hand struck the thin and widely separated slats, the only barriers between us and the steers. We both knew that if the horns ever came through them, we would be done for. "We're gone, Cig," Fatty continued; "no doubt of it. But, jus' the samey, I'm goin' to pound my ear, anyhow. I'd rather die asleep than awake. So, so long, Cig; if you croak first, I'll pray for you."