Being buried up to your neck in sand is a damn fool situation to get yourself into. About the third hour in, you start callin' down the most spiteful curses on the tribe that put you there. At five hours, when you’re run out of spit and venom, you’ll do some reflectin' on the state of your soul, and even get so you plead to God to forgive you when you meet St. Peter. Come eight hours, with the sun jus' peekin' over the mountains, you give up on prayin' to the Lord and go back to cussing, cept this time you'll take aim at yourself and God and women and them fire ants that get inside a person's collar.
You might jus' start reamin yerself for what you done to get in that state. Beddin' down with the chief's daughter wasn’t the brightest of ideas. Especially after bustin' her brother’s arm at wrestling. And when you get found out, talking your way out of it in a language you don’t speak don’t improve things a bit. Out of pure innocence, you could call her mother a wanton coyote with mange. The whole of the tribe would probably rush you right there and scalp you soon as looking at you. Then again they may just lock you in a sweat tent while they figure out which way to skin you best.
If you should make your escape from the tent, don’t you steal the chief's favorite painted war horse. For one, that horse is a wily one, and’ll take you in a full circle that’ll land you right back in camp no matter how many times you yank the reigns. For two, the chief will take it as a real personal insult. Damned if he won’t come up with some diabolical torture for you on the spot. But if you done all that, don’t scream your head off when they start burying you. It’s unmanful, and it’s best to go out lookin' good for Death when he drops by to pick you up.
Of course, even though I done those things, I still got myself out of the dirt, or I wouldn’t be flappin' my gums about it now. If you’re the impatient type, skip ahead a bit, otherways I’ll spell it out now…