Part 22 (1/2)

His equal had never been seen in a Mexican bull ring. While typical of his Utreran brothers, all princes of bovine fighting stock, this coal-black monster was by the spectators voted their King. Relatively light of quarters and shallow of flank and barrel, he was unusually high and humped of withers, broad and deep of chest and heavy of shoulders--indeed a well-nigh perfect four-legged type of a finely trained two-legged athlete, with a pair of peculiarly straight-upstanding horns that were long and almost as sharp as rapiers. Evidently by his build, he was of a strong strain of East Indian Brahminic blood. For his great weight, his activity was phenomenal--his leaps like a panther's, his turns as quick.

Dazed for an instant by the crash of the music and the brilliant banks of color about him, he stood angrily las.h.i.+ng his tail and pawing up the sand in clouds--”digging a grave,” as Texas cowboys used to call it--his eyes blazing and head tossing, but only for a moment. Then he charged the nearest _picador_, literally leaped so high at him that head and cruel horns crossed above the horse's neck, his own great chest striking the horse just behind the shoulder with such force that man and mount hit the ground stunned and helpless.

Barely were they down when he was upon them and with a single twitch of his mighty neck, had ripped open the horse's barrel and half amputated one of the rider's legs. Then, diverted by the _capadores_, he whirled upon the second _picador_ and in another ten seconds had left his horse dead and the rider badly trampled. Next the _banderilleros_ tackled him, but such was his speed and ferocity that all three funked the work, and not one of them fastened his flag in the black shoulders.

When the bull had entered the ring, _El Tigre_ left the arena--a most unusual proceeding. Now he returned, clad in snow-white from head to foot, a white cap covering head and hair, his face heavily powdered. He slipped in behind and unseen by the bull to the centre of the arena, and there stood erect, with arms folded, motionless as a graven image.

Presently the bull turned, saw _El Tigre_, and charged him straight. _El Tigre_ was not even facing him, for the bull was approaching from his left. But there he stood without the twitch of a muscle or the flicker of an eye lid, still as a figure of stone.

A great sob arose from the audience, and all gave him up for lost, when, at the last instant before the bull must have struck, it turned and pa.s.sed him. Once more the bull so charged and pa.s.sed. Whether because it mistook him for the ghost of a man or recognized in him a spirit mightier than its own, only the bull knew.

Before the audience had well caught its breath, _El Tigre_, wearing again his usual costume, was striding again to the middle of the arena, carrying a light chair, in which presently he seated himself, facing the bull, a show _banderilla_, no more than six inches long, held in his teeth. And so he awaited the charge until the bull was within actual arm's-reach, when with a swift rise from the chair and a turn of his body quick as that of a fencer's supple wrist, he bent and stuck the teeth-held banderilla in the bull's shoulder as he swept past.

Now was the time for the kill.

El Tigre received his sword, _muleta_, and cape. The _muleta_ is a straight two-foot stick over which the cape is draped, and, held in the _matador's_ left hand, usually is extended well to the right of his body.

Thus in an ordinary fight the bull is actually charging the blood-red cape, and not the _matador_. But, with Sofia an onlooker, determined to make this the fight of his life, _El Tigre_ tossed aside the _muleta_, wrapped the crimson cape about his body, and stood alone awaiting the bull's charge, his malleable sword-blade bent slightly downward, sufficiently to give a true thrust behind the shoulder, a down-curve into heart or lungs.

With a bull of such extraordinary activity the act was almost suicidal, but _El Tigre_ smilingly took the chance. By toreador etiquette, the _matador_ must receive and dodge the first two charges; not until the third may he strike. On the first charge _El Tigre_ stood like a rock until the bull had almost reached him, and then lightly leaped diagonally across his lowered neck. The second charge, come an instant after the first, before most men could even turn, he dodged. The third he swiftly side-stepped, thrust true, and dropped the great Utreran midway of a leap aimed at his elusive enemy.

It was a deed magnificent, epic, and the plaza rung with plaudits while hats, fans, and even purses and jewels showered into the arena--all of which, by _toreador_ etiquette, were tossed back across the barrier to their owners.

Then the teams entered and quickly dragged the dead from the arena; the ugly, dangerously slippery red patches were fresh sanded, and the second bull was admitted. Thus, with more or less like incident, three more bulls were fought and killed.

The fifth and last, however, proved a disgrace to his race. Bluff he did, but fight he would not; the noise and crowd unnerved him. At last, frenzied with fear and seeking escape, he made a mighty leap to mount the barrier directly in front of the box of the _Presidente_. And mount it he did, and down it crashed beneath his weight, leaving the bull for a moment half down and tangled in the wreckage, struggling to regain his feet.

Directly in front of the bull, not six feet beyond the sharp points of his deadly horns, sat Sofia. Indeed none about her had risen; all sat as if frozen in their places. And just as well they might have been, for escape into or through the dense ma.s.s of spectators about them was utterly impossible. Whatever horror came they must await, helpless.

But at the bull's very start for the barrier, _El Tigre_, realized Sofia's peril and instantly sprang empty-handed in pursuit; for it was early in this the last _corrida_ and he did not have his sword,

Leaping the wreckage, _El Tigre_ landed directly in front of the bull, happily at the instant it regained its feet, where, with his right hand seizing the bull by the nose--his thumb and two fore-fingers thrust well within its nostrils--and with his left hand grabbing the right horn, with a mighty heave he uplifted the bull's muzzle and bore down upon its horn until he threw it with a crash upon its side that left it momentarily helpless.

But, himself slipping in the loose wreckage, down also _El Tigre_ fell, the bull's sharp right horn impaling his left thigh and pinning him to the ground.

Before the bull could rise, the men of the _cuadrilla_ had it safely bound and _El Tigre_ released. _El Tigre_, however, did not know it.

With the shock and pain of his wound he had fainted.

When at length he regained consciousness, it was to find his head pillowed in Sofia's lap, her soft fingers caressing his brow, her tearful eyes looking into his, and to hear her whisper: ”Mauro _mio_!”

Just at this moment the Duke de Oviedo approached, no one knew whence.

White with jealousy but steady and cool, he quietly remarked:

”Madame, I ought to kill you both, but that my rank precludes.

Lucha-sangre, in yourself, as son of a notary and hired _toreador_ and purveyor of spectacles, you are unworthy of my sword; nevertheless blood once n.o.ble is in your veins. And so as n.o.ble it suits me now to count you. As soon as you are recovered of your wound I will send you my second.”

”Most happy, Duke,” answered Mauro; ”mine shall be ready to meet him.”