Half an hour after the sun rose, Nate and Hoot had eaten breakfast, retrieved their horses, Nate’s Big Red and Hoot’s lineback dun, Sandy, from the rope corral, and saddled and bridled them. Hoot lifted the lariat off his saddle, shook out a loop, ducked into the corral, and picked out a mule from the milling herd. He deftly tossed his rope, which settled around the neck of his chosen pack animal, a big bay mule with extremely long ears, even for one of his kind, and the lighter muzzle typical of most mules. The mule pulled back for a bit, but when Hoot spoke soothingly to it the animal followed him willingly out of the corral.
“Wow! That was some throw,” Nate exclaimed. “I’ve gotta learn how to catch a horse like that.”
“Walton here’s a mule, not a horse,” Hoot pointed out.
“I know that,” Nate retorted. “You know what I mean, Hoot.”
“I’m just joshin’ you, pardner,” Hoot said. “That’s called a Houlihan throw, although some cowboys call it a Houley-Ann. When we get back from San Saba, you should ask Phil Knight to teach you how to throw one. He’s the best roper in the company, and the one who taught me. Have him show you the Johnny Blocker toss, too.”
“I’ll do that,” Nate said.
“Good. Now, let’s get the pack saddle on ol’ Walton here.”
“You mind my askin’ why you chose Walton out of all those mules?”
“Because he’s one of the biggest and strongest, but mostly because he’s the most even-tempered of the lot. He’s not as stubborn or ornery as a lotta mules can be. Ain’t that right, Walton?”
Hoot chucked the mule under his jaw. Walton gave a sigh, shook his head, and flapped his long ears. Hoot led him to where the pack saddles were kept, under a cottonwood whose shade provided at least some protection from the harsh Texas sun for the equipment. Captain Quincy was waiting for them there. He held two large leather satchels, which contained the files for Headquarters.
“I see you boys are right on time. That’s a good quality in any man, but especially in a Ranger,” he praised. “You just about ready to go?”
“Soon as we get the pack saddle on Walton we’ll be on our way,” Hoot said. “Nate, watch close while I get it in place. It’s not all that much different than puttin’ on a ridin’ saddle. Loadin’ it with supplies is when you need to be careful, so you’ll learn a lot more over to San Saba. Right now, the only thing we need to carry is our grub, and some grain for our animals.”
“All right.”
Hoot picked up a large saddle blanket and placed it over Walton’s back. He smoothed out any wrinkles, and made sure it was centered, not too much to one side or the other.
“See. Just like puttin’ the blanket on your horse,” he said. “Now for the saddle.”
He picked up the pack saddle, which was built with two wooden “bars” which would sit on each side of the pack animal’s back, a canvas cover, and X-shaped wooden “cross-bucks” on each end. Ropes and panniers which would carry most of the load could be tied to those, and other goods secured between them. There was a gap that would, if the saddle was placed properly, be directly over the animal’s backbone, both to avoid pressure on its spine and to allow heat to dissipate and the evaporation of sweat. In addition to the usual cinches, there were several other buckles and straps.
“You swing it up on Walton’s back,” Hoot said. “Make sure it’s level and balanced right.” He pulled on the saddle to bring it a bit more to Walton’s left side.
“Those braces look like the posts on the cross-buck rail fences farmers build back in Delaware and Pennsylvania,” Nate said. “They stick ’em in the ground and cross ’em like that so they can build a fence without usin’ nails. ’Course, there are a lot more trees back there.”
“Well, these are called cross-bucks or sawbucks, so I guess it’s the same idea,” Hoot answered. “We hang the panniers from ’em, and also can stack sacks and such up in between ’em. Now, you make sure the cover’s in place with no wrinkles to bother Walton’s back, then you cinch the saddle in place. Watch.”
Hoot tightened first the front cinch, then the back.
“Why didn’t you make sure the air was outta his belly?” Nate asked.
“That’s another reason I like Walton,” Hoot answered. “He don’t fill himself up with air. Makes cinchin’ the saddle a bit easier. Now, just like your saddle horse, you buckle the breast plate in place, not too tight. Leave a handful of slack between it and your animal. Keeps the saddle from slidin’ back too far, but doesn’t bother him. Now, we’ve gotta get the breeching and crupper in place.”
He picked up still more straps.
“This here’s the breeching and crupper. They kinda work like the breastplate, only in reverse. They keep the saddle from slidin’ forward when goin’ downhill. I’m not gonna take too much time to explain about ’em now, since we need to get on the trail, so just watch while I hook ’em up.”
Nate watched while Hoot got the breeching in place along Walton’s sides and buckled it in place. Hoot then slid the crupper’s loop up under the mule’s tail, ran the strap over his rump, and attached it to the back of the pack saddle.
“There. Now the saddle won’t move too far forward or back,” Hoot said, once he was finished.
Nate eyed the crupper dubiously.
“Doesn’t that thing bother him?” he asked. “I know I dang well sure wouldn’t like that strap stuck up the crack of my… um, rear.”
“Nah. Not as long as it’s put on right,” Hoot explained. “It’s mostly just under his tail, not shoved up his butt. And the only time there’s any pressure on it is if the saddle slides.”
“What about when he poops? Doesn’t it get all over that thing?”
“It sure does,” Hoot said. “Which means to keep from irritatin’ Walton’s tail, and mebbe even givin’ him sores, the crupper’s got to be kept real clean, which means scrapin’ and washin’ it down every night. And that, Nate, is gonna be your job.”
Hoot laughed, while Nate merely groaned. Here his friends back in Wilmington thought being a cowboy was all excitement and fun! If only they could see him now, they’d find out the truth.
“Let’s mount up,” Hoot said. He and Nate swung into their saddles. Hoot held Walton’s lead rope. That was another reason he had chosen him. Walton wouldn’t fight the lead, but would follow docilely for hours on end. In fact, after a few miles, Hoot wouldn’t even need to hold the lead, but would just loop it around Walton’s neck and tie the end to the pack saddle. Walton would just keep pace with whoever he was trailing.
Captain Quincy handed one satchel to Hoot, the other to Nate. They tied them to the cantles of their saddles, over their bedrolls.
“Hoot, Nate, both of you be careful. Have a good time in town, but keep out of mischief. Don’t do any excessive celebrating or somethin’ which might get you into trouble. And of course I don’t need to tell you to keep watchful on the trail. That’s how a Ranger stays alive.”
“We’ll be careful, Cap’n,” Hoot said.
“Good. Nate, a word to the wise. Hoot’s not much older than you, but he’s lived almost his entire life out here on the frontier. In addition, obviously he’s got a lot more experience as a Ranger. Take this opportunity to let him teach you more about Rangering. What you learn will stand you in good stead later. You can bet your hat on that.”
“I’ll do that, Cap’n.”
“Good. And Hoot, if Nate comes up with any good suggestions, you listen to him. Sometimes a new man’ll come up with an idea we’ve overlooked.”
“Right, Cap’n.”
“Fine. Now, be on your way. I’ll see you back here in five days. Vaya con Dios.”
“Adios, Cap’n,” Hoot said.
“Adios,” Nate echoed. They put their horses into a walk, Walton plodding along behind Sandy. Fifteen minutes later, they rode out of sight of the camp.
***
Hoot and Nate’s first day’s ride was uneventful. A refreshing north breeze came up in early afternoon, breaking the stifling heat and humidity, providing relief for men and mounts. They made good time, and covered over thirty miles before Hoot called a halt for the night, at a small stream which wound back into a small grove of pin oaks and junipers.
“This looks like a good place to set up camp,” he said. “We can get back off the trail so it won’t be easy for anyone who happens along to spot us without us seein’ ’em first, there’s water and some grazin’ for our horses and mule, and plenty of dead branches for a fire.”
“Are you certain you want to stop this early, Hoot?” Nate asked. “There’s still at least a couple of hours of daylight left. We could cover another ten miles before dark, easy.”
“We could, but we might not find another spot as good as this one,” Hoot answered. “This breeze’ll let up once the sun goes down, and it’ll get sticky again when it does. Plus there’s no point in pushin’ the horses any harder. You haven’t been ridin’ with the Rangers all that long, so you haven’t learned how to pace your horse, and when to give him a good rest before he’s too worn out. That’ll come in time. We covered more ground than I expected today, so even with stoppin’ here, we’ll still make San Saba by sundown tomorrow, barrin’ any unforeseen trouble.”
“All right,” Nate said. He swung out of his saddle, as did Hoot. “I was sure ready to stop anyway,” Nate continued. He headed for the nearest tree and unbuttoned his denims to relieve himself.
“Um, Nate,” Hoot called after him.
“What?”
“You might want to turn around before you start.”
“Huh? What difference does it make which way I’m standin’ when I pee, Hoot?”
“Boy howdy, you really are a city slicker,” Hoot answered. “You ever hear the sayin’ ‘Don’t spit into the wind’?”
“Yeah. Sure I have. Why?”
“Same idea.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Think about it.”
Nate thought for a moment.
“Oh. Yeah, now I see what you mean, Hoot.”
“That’s right, pardner. You don’t pee into the wind either.” Hoot laughed, as Nate turned toward a nearby tree with his back to the wind, as did Hoot. Once they were finished, they stripped the gear off Big Red, Sandy, and Walton, groomed their horses thoroughly, and did the same for the mule. Once that was done, they allowed the animals to drink their fill, then picketed them to graze. They poured out some grain for each. Once they were satisfied the horses and mule were settled for the night, they turned their attention to their own supper.
“You want to gather the firewood or cook supper, Nate?” Hoot asked. “Truth be told, I ain’t much of a cook. I can even burn water when I try to boil it, so if you don’t mind fryin’ up the bacon and beans, we’ll probably eat better. I could try’n scare up a rabbit or prairie chicken for supper, but we’ve got enough supplies until we reach town, so I don’t see the need. And, I’m a bit tuckered out.”
“I don’t mind doin’ the cookin’,” Nate answered. “I didn’t used to have a clue how to cook, since my ma always did that, until I started helpin’ George. He’s given me a few pointers, so I can at least make up a decent mess of bacon, beans, and biscuits. My coffee ain’t too bad, either.”
“Good, that’s settled. You can break out the grub while I gather the wood and make the fire.”
Half an hour later, bacon and beans were frying and coffee was boiling over a nearly smokeless fire.
“You might’ve noticed I made sure to pick up the driest wood I could find, Nate,” Hoot said. “None of those damp or green branches from alongside the stream. You want to use wood that makes as little smoke as possible. Helps keep anyone who might be lookin’ for you from findin’ you. True, if they get close enough they’ll be able to smell the smoke, but you don’t want to send up a column that’s big as an Apache smoke signal.”
“That makes sense to me,” Nate said. “If you want to grab your plate and mug, this chuck’s just about done.”
“All right.”
Both youngsters piled their plates with the bacon and beans. They ate eagerly, since their only nourishment after leaving camp that morning had been some jerky, hardtack, and water. Once they were finished eating, they each had another cup of coffee.
Hoot patted his belly.
“That was mighty fine cookin’, Nate. You learned good.” He rolled and lit a cigarette.
“You want to try a smoke, Nate?” he offered.
“I dunno. Not quite yet,” Nate answered. “My brother tried it once. He said it made him awful sick.”
“It can take some gettin’ used to,” Hoot admitted, “But it’s also mighty enjoyable, and helps settle your nerves. Almost all us Rangers smoke.”
“I’d imagine the smoke from a cigarette, just like campfire smoke, could also give you away to someone searchin’ for you,” Nate pointed out.
“Well, there is that,” Hoot said. “You just have to know when not to light up. You certain you don’t want to try a quirly?”
“Mebbe when we get to town. I don’t want to chance gettin’ sick with another day’s ride ahead of us.”
“That’s fair enough,” Hoot said. “But I’m holdin’ you to it.”
They finished their coffee and tossed out the dregs. Hoot took a final drag on his quirly, pinched out the butt and tossed it in the creek. He looked up at the sky.
“Nate, it’s not time to turn in yet. We’ve still got an hour or so before dusk. How about I teach you some knife fightin’?”
“You, Hoot? I figured that would fall to Jeb, or mebbe Lieutenant Bob.”
“Nah, it most likely would’ve fallen to me, even if we were still in camp. I’m the best knife fighter in the company, and that’s not braggin’, just fact. Heck, I trained Andy Pratt how to use a knife. Taught the Tomlinson brothers, too.”
“Where’d you learn how to use a knife?”
“From my pa. My folks were from the hills and hollers of Arkansas, and my pa learned how up there. It was that or get himself killed, leastwise that’s what he told me. He had a way of teachin’ a man how to fight with a knife that I’ve never seen anyone else use, and he passed that on to me before he died.”
“Not by gettin’ stabbed in a knife fight, I hope,” Nate said. He chuckled.
“No, my pa didn’t die by gettin’ killed in a knife fight, you idjit,” Hoot retorted. He gave Nate a backhanded slap in the stomach. “He was too smart for that. And the method he used to teach me works real good. So what do you say? You want me to show you how to use a knife or not?”
“I reckon,” Nate said.
“Good. Then stand up and pull out your knife.”
“All right.” Nate got to his feet and slid his Bowie knife from the sheath on his left hip. Hoot also rose and pulled out his knife.
“We’re not gonna fight with these, are we?” Nate asked.
“Not unless you want to bleed a lot,” Hoot answered. “No, I just want to show you how to hold your knife before we start. First, a Bowie is meant for two things: fightin’ and killin’, or for butcherin’ an animal like a deer or longhorn. Now, you take that knife and hold it pretty much the way you are now, with the handle toward you, your thumb on top, and the blade pointed away from you. Before Jim Bowie came up with this knife, most knives were held the other way, with the blade facin’ back. You’d try to kill your opponent by usin’ an overhand, downward stroke, tryin’ to plunge your knife into his chest or mebbe his throat. Bowie changed all that. His knife is meant to be used underhanded, and to take your opponent down low in his belly. Then you slash upward, rippin’ through his guts. And by grippin’ it that way you can also stick it into his throat. You can even stab sideways, so you can drive the blade between a man’s ribs. If he’s guardin’ his middle, you can bring your knife across and get him in the side of his neck. Of course, you have to remember he’s also gonna have a knife and will be doin’ his darnedest to stick it in you. Now, that guard in front of the handle, as you’ve probably already figured out, is to protect your thumb and fingers. It also gives you some more leverage when you hit your target. Of course, there’s a lot more to it than that, but that’s a quick primer for you. The best way to learn, like in most things, is by doin’. You ready to try?”
“I sure am.”
“Good. Now, shove your knife back in its sheath, then shuck your gunbelt. You might as well shed your hat, too, since it’ll most likely get knocked off, anyways. I’m gonna do the same thing.”
“All right.”
Nate and Hoot removed their gunbelts and hats and set them on the ground. Hoot also removed his shirt.
“You might want to take your shirt off too, Nate, otherwise it’s liable to get ruined,” he said.
“Okay.” Nate pulled off his shirt and tossed it atop his hat and gunbelt.
“We’ll be set in a minute,” Hoot said. He pulled two smoldering pieces of wood, each about the length and thickness of a Bowie, from the fire. He gave one to Nate.
“Since it’s plain we can’t use real knives for this lesson, Nate, we’ll use these,” he explained. “This is how my pa taught me. We’ll use these sticks as if they were knives. Each time one of us makes a hit, the ashes will leave a mark, so we’ll know exactly where the stick struck.”
“They’re gonna leave more’n just a mark, since they’re still burnin’,” Nate objected.
“I was gettin’ to that. When my pa taught me how to handle a knife, he used smolderin’ sticks. Every time he got me, the stick burned my skin, leavin’ a mark, sometimes even a blister. In fact, the first time he gave me a lesson, he didn’t have me take my shirt off, so it ended up burnt fulla holes. My ma sure gave him holy what-for for ruinin’ my shirt. So next time, he had me take it off. He also said I’d always remember what he taught me, since I’d never forget the burns. He was sure right about that.”
“At least now I know why you had me pull off my shirt. But I sure ain’t lookin’ forward to gettin’ my skin scorched.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. We’re gonna make sure these are out before we start. The ash marks from the burned ends are enough to let the lesson sink in. We’ll dip the ends of the sticks in the fire’s ashes when we need to, so they’ll keep markin’ us until we’re done for the night. But there’s also no point in chancin’ snaggin’ our shirts and rippin’ ’em, or gettin’ ’em even dirtier than they already are. You ready?”
“I reckon.” Nate shrugged.
“All right. You just stand there for a minute. This is gonna be exactly how my pa started my lesson.”
Hoot held his stick in his right hand, about hip level and slightly out from his side. He began waving it back and forth.
“This is what happens in a real fight,” he said. “Man you’re fightin’ will be swingin’ his knife hand back and forth, in and out, tryin’ to distract you. Your eyes’ll just naturally follow the knife. Then, when he thinks he’s got your gaze elsewhere, he’ll nail you, like this!”
Hoot poked the point of his stick into Nate’s stomach. It left a dark smudge of ash when he pulled it back.
“And you’re dead,” he concluded. “Mebbe not right away, but you’re outta the fight, and sure enough done for.”
“And here I thought we were pards,” Nate said. He laughed.
“Not for now, we’re not,” Hoot answered. “Not until this lesson is over. Just remember, in a knife fight, the hombre you’re fightin’ will most likely go after your middle. That’s your softest part, and the best target, since there’s no bone to deflect your knife. I know after our boxing match Jeb taught you how to protect your gut. This’ll be the same idea, only a knife is a lot more deadly than fists. Now, you need to stand like I am. Bend your knees a bit, and crouch down a little. Mebbe spread your feet a bit more. That gives you more leverage, plus you can move a bit faster. One more thing. A good way to disable your opponent is to slash his knife arm. If you can do that, you’ll usually stop the fight without havin’ to kill someone. Now, get ready. I’m comin’ after you.”
Hoot lunged at Nate, stick low. He was surprised when Nate reacted quickly enough to knock his arm upward and to the side. Nate’s stick slid along Hoot’s ribs as he twisted away, leaving a dark streak of ash, then Hoot recovered and jabbed his into Nate’s belly, just above his waistband.
“Nice try, Nate, but you only skinned me. I got ya plumb center,” Hoot said. “Let’s go again.”
This time, Hoot feinted low, but when Nate bent in the middle to pull away, he stabbed upward, catching Nate just below his breastbone.
Nate muttered a soft curse.
“Don’t get frustrated quite yet,” Hoot advised him. “It’ll take a bit until you figure this out. You got me in the ribs first try, so you’ve already done better’n I did when my pa taught me. I didn’t manage to hit him until after at least twenty tries. You’ll get this, Nate. Let’s go again.”
“All right.”
Six more times they fought, and six more times the results were the same. Nate’s torso was streaked with ashes, while Hoot’s had only the one streak along his ribs, now half-washed away with his sweat. The sixth fight, Nate thought he had Hoot, but Hoot managed to parry his thrust, knocked his arm aside, then slashed him across the throat.
“Got ya again, Nate.”
“Not this time, you won’t,” Nate growled. “Go again.”
They closed again. This time, Nate was able to get past Hoot’s defense. He drove at his stomach, but Hoot twisted aside and grabbed Nate’s arm, forcing it downward. However, he could not stop Nate’s momentum completely. Nate’s makeshift knife struck him squarely in the crotch. Hoot’s eyes widened, he swallowed hard, groaned, and bent double, gasping.
“Hoot! You all right? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you in the… well, not there, anyway,” Nate said. “I was aimin’ for your stomach.”
“Don’t… don’t apologize. My… fault,” Hoot choked out. “Besides, gettin’ an hombre there… might not… kill him, but… it’ll dang sure… stop him right in his tracks. You win this time.”
“You want to quit?”
“No. Not now. You’re just startin’ to get the hang of this. Give me a minute, then we’ll go again.”
“How about we get a drink in the meantime?”
“Sounds like a right fine idea.”
Nate and Hoot headed for the creek, where they dropped to their bellies and ducked their heads in the water to cool off, then drank their fill. After that, they stirred the ends of their sticks in the ashes of the now almost dead fire to recoat them. Five minutes later, they resumed Nate’s lessons. This time, Nate feinted a stab to Hoot’s belly, then came in higher and slashed him across the chest. Hoot countered with a slash along Nate’s belly.
“Hey! I got ya first, Hoot,” Nate objected. “You were dead before your knife even touched me.”
“Ya got me, all right, but you didn’t kill me,” Hoot answered. “You only ripped open a slice along my chest is all, but I just gutted you. If this had been a real fight, I’d have bled a lot, and had a nasty scar, but I most likely would’ve lived. You’d’ve been done for. Remember what I said about bone deflectin’ a knife? If you’d stabbed me straight on, your blade would most likely have slid between my ribs, gotten my heart or lungs, and killed me; but slashin’ like you did, the wound most likely wouldn’t be mortal.”
“Still say I killed you,” Nate grumbled.
“That mean you want to try one more time before we call it a night?”
“Darn straight I do.”
“Then let’s go.”
Both boys were more wary now, Hoot realizing Nate was indeed becoming more proficient in handling a knife, Nate more cautious about watching Hoot. They circled, each looking for an opening. When Hoot thought he had one, he lunged at Nate. Nate danced aside, and as Hoot’s thrust went wide, jabbed his stick into Hoot’s belly and drove it upward.
“Got ya that time, Hoot. You gonna claim I didn’t?”
“No, I reckon not. Pretty plain you did.”
“Glad you admitted it.”
“Can’t hardly deny it. You nailed me good. That’s exactly how you’re supposed to use a Bowie.”
There was a streak of ash up Hoot’s middle, all the way from his belly button to his breastbone.
“Dunno about you,” Hoot continued, “But I’m ready to call it a night. Sun’s just about down, and I’ve taught you the basics of handlin’ a knife. The rest is just practice… and instinct. Just like in a gunfight, there’s no way to know how a man’ll react in a knife fight until he actually gets in one. I think you’ll do all right, though.”
“Thanks, Hoot. Tell you what. I’ll rekindle the fire and make some more coffee.”
“That sure sounds good. After that, we’ll check on the animals one last time, then hit our blankets. We’ll be on our way again come sunup.”
***
The sky had faded from indigo to inky black by the time Hoot and Nate crawled into their bedrolls. The moon was new, so its light didn’t dim the myriad stars pinpricking the sky. Nate looked up at them for awhile, thinking about his family, then softly called out to Hoot.
“Hoot, you awake?”
“Yeah, I still am. What’d you want, Nate?”
“I can’t sleep. I’ve been lyin’ here thinking about my folks. You mentioned you’d tell me about your family sometime. Mind doin’ that now? I’d sure like to hear about ’em.”
“All right. Don’t seem sleepy myself.”
“Good. Then go ahead.”
Hoot hesitated before starting his story.
“I was born up in Arkansas. There were eleven of us kids, four girls and seven boys. I was the youngest boy. Two of my sisters were younger’n me. My folks had a hardscrabble farm. They tried their hardest to make it work, but it never did amount to much. Then, cholera took my ma and all my brothers and sisters, except for my oldest brother, Joe, and my baby sister, Katie. After buryin’ ’em all, my pa just gave up on the farm and walked away from it. We came to Texas. Katie died a few months after from a bad case of grippe. My pa withered away after losin’ Katie. I think he died of a broken heart. Two months later, Joe got killed when a longhorn gored him. That left me without any kin. After Joe died, I tried my hand at cowboyin’ and did a fair to middlin’ job at it. But then I heard the Rangers were recruitin’. It sounded like somethin’ I’d be good at, and exciting, besides. So I lied about my age, told ’em I was eighteen, and talked ’em into takin’ me on. I think Sergeant Schofield, he’s the man who let me enlist, knew I was younger than I claimed, but he was just glad to have an able body willin’ to sign on for low pay and hard work, which I didn’t know I was lettin’ myself in for at the time, of course. I’ve been a Ranger ever since.”
“And you don’t ever regret it?”
“Not one bit. Sure, it’s hard and dangerous work, the pay’s lousy and the grub’s worse, but I’ve made some fine friends, and we’re helpin’ make Texas safe for honest folks. I plan on stayin’ a Ranger until I’m too old to stay in the saddle, or a bullet finds me.”
“How old are you, really, Hoot? The truth now. I won’t let on I know,” Nate said.
“I’m supposed to be eighteen, but I just turned sixteen a month ago. Like I said, I’m pretty certain Sergeant Schofield suspected I was about sixteen when I signed on, not eighteen, but I was really only fourteen. Same age as you are right now, Nate. So we’ll have to keep our ages just between us.”
“No one’ll find out from me,” Nate promised. “Can I ask another question?”
“Sure, but just one more. Then we’d better turn in and get some shut-eye.”
“Since you handle a knife so well, I’m just wonderin’ how many men you’ve actually killed with one,” Nate said.
“Me? At least half a dozen, plus a couple more who probably didn’t live,” Hoot answered. “That’s my story.” He paused and sighed. “You want the truth? Nary a one. And I hope I never have to.”