1Manuel Garcia climbed the stairs to Don Miguel Retana’s office. He set down his suitcase and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Manuel, standing in the hallway, felt there was some one in the room. He felt it through the door.

2“Retana,” he said, listening.

3There was no answer.

4He’s there, all right, Manuel thought.

5“Retana,” he said and banged the door.

6“Who’s there?” said some one in the office.

7“Me, Manolo,” Manuel said.

8“What do you want?” asked the voice.

9“I want to work,” Manuel said.

10Something in the door clicked several times and it swung open. Manuel went in, carrying his suitcase.

11A little man sat behind a desk at the far side of the room. Over his head was a bull’s head, stuffed by a Madrid taxidermist; on the walls were framed photographs and bull-fight posters.

12The little man sat looking at Manuel.

13“I thought they’d killed you,” he said.

14Manuel knocked with his knuckles on the desk. The little man sat looking at him across the desk.

15“How many corridas you had this year?” Retana asked.

16“One,” he answered.

17“Just that one?” the little man asked.

18“That’s all.”

19“I read about it in the papers,” Retana said. He leaned back in the chair and looked at Manuel.

20Manuel looked up at the stuffed bull. He had seen it often before. He felt a certain family interest in it. It had killed his brother, the promising one, about nine years ago. Manuel remembered the day. There was a brass plate on the oak shield the bull’s head was mounted on. Manuel could not read it, but he imagined it was in memory of his brother. Well, he had been a good kid.

21The plate said: “The Bull ‘Mariposa’ of the Duke of Veragua, which accepted 9 varas for 7 caballos, and caused the death of Antonio Garcia, Novillero, April 27, 1909.”

22Retana saw him looking at the stuffed bull’s head.

23“The lot the Duke sent me for Sunday will make a scandal,” he said. “They’re all bad in the legs. What do they say about them at the Café?”

24“I don’t know,” Manuel said. “I just got in.”

25“Yes,” Retana said. “You still have your bag.”

26He looked at Manuel, leaning back behind the big desk.

27“Sit down,” he said. “Take off your cap.”

28Manuel sat down; his cap off, his face was changed. He looked pale, and his coleta pinned forward on his head, so that it would not show under the cap, gave him a strange look.

29“You don’t look well,” Retana said.

30“I just got out of the hospital,” Manuel said.

31“I heard they’d cut your leg off,” Retana said.

32“No,” said Manuel. “It got all right.”

33Retana leaned forward across the desk and pushed a wooden box of cigarettes toward Manuel.

34“Have a cigarette,” he said.

35“Thanks.”

36Manuel lit it.

37“Smoke?” he said, offering the match to Retana.

38“No,” Retana waved his hand, “I never smoke.”

39Retana watched him smoking.

40“Why don’t you get a job and go to work?” he said.

41“I don’t want to work,” Manuel said. “I am a bull-fighter.”

42“There aren’t any bull-fighters any more,” Retana said.

43“I’m a bull-fighter,” Manuel said.

44“Yes, while you’re in there,” Retana said.

45Manuel laughed.

46Retana sat, saying nothing and looking at Manuel.

47“I’ll put you in a nocturnal if you want,” Retana offered.

48“When?” Manuel asked.

49“To-morrow night.”

50“I don’t like to substitute for anybody,” Manuel said. That was the way they all got killed. That was the way Salvador got killed. He tapped with his knuckles on the table.

51“It’s all I’ve got,” Retana said.

52“Why don’t you put me on next week?” Manuel suggested.

53“You wouldn’t draw,” Retana said. “All they want is Litri and Rubito and La Torre. Those kids are good.”

54“They’d come to see me get it,” Manuel said, hopefully.

55“No, they wouldn’t. They don’t know who you are any more.”

56“I’ve got a lot of stuff,” Manuel said.

57“I’m offering to put you on to-morrow night,” Retana said. “You can work with young Hernandez and kill two novillos after the Chariots.”

58“Whose novillos?” Manuel asked.

59“I don’t know. Whatever stuff they’ve got in the corrals. What the veterinaries won’t pass in the daytime.”

60“I don’t like to substitute,” Manuel said.

61“You can take it or leave it,” Retana said. He leaned forward over the papers. He was no longer interested. The appeal that Manuel had made to him for a moment when he thought of the old days was gone. He would like to get him to substitute for Larita because he could get him cheaply. He could get others cheaply too. He would like to help him though. Still he had given him the chance. It was up to him.

62“How much do I get?” Manuel asked. He was still playing with the idea of refusing. But he knew he could not refuse.

63“Two hundred and fifty pesetas,” Retana said. He had thought of five hundred, but when he opened his mouth it said two hundred and fifty.

64“You pay Villalta seven thousand,” Manuel said.

65“You’re not Villalta,” Retana said.

66“I know it,” Manuel said.

67“He draws it, Manolo,” Retana said in explanation.

68“Sure,” said Manuel. He stood up. “Give me three hundred, Retana.”

69“All right,” Retana agreed. He reached in the drawer for a paper.

70“Can I have fifty now?” Manuel asked.

71“Sure,” said Retana. He took a fifty peseta note out of his pocket-book and laid it, spread out flat, on the table.

72Manuel picked it up and put it in his pocket.

73“What about a cuadrilla?” he asked.

74“There’s the boys that always work for me nights,” Retana said. “They’re all right.”

75“How about picadors?” Manuel asked.

76“They’re not much,” Retana admitted.

77“I’ve got to have one good pic,” Manuel said.

78“Get him then,” Retana said. “Go and get him.”

79“Not out of this,” Manuel said. “I’m not paying for any cuadrilla out of sixty duros.”

80Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel across the big desk.

81“You know I’ve got to have one good pic,” Manuel said.

82Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel from a long way off.

83“It isn’t right,” Manuel said.

84Retana was still considering him, leaning back in his chair, considering him from a long way away.

85“There’re the regular pics,” he offered.

86“I know,” Manuel said. “I know your regular pics.”

87Retana did not smile. Manuel knew it was over.

88“All I want is an even break,” Manuel said reasoningly. “When I go out there I want to be able to call my shots on the bull. It only takes one good picador.”

89He was talking to a man who was no longer listening.

90“If you want something extra,” Retana said, “go and get it. There will be a regular cuadrilla out there. Bring as many of your own pics as you want. The charlotada is over by 10.30.”

91“All right,” Manuel said. “If that’s the way you feel about it.”

92“That’s the way,” Retana said.

93“I’ll see you to-morrow night,” Manuel said.

94“I’ll be out there,” Retana said.

95Manuel picked up his suitcase and went out.

96“Shut the door,” Retana called.

97Manuel looked back. Retana was sitting forward looking at some papers. Manuel pulled the door tight until it clicked.

98He went down the stairs and out of the door into the hot brightness of the street. It was very hot in the street and the light on the white buildings was sudden and hard on his eyes. He walked down the shady side of the steep street toward the Puerta del Sol. The shade felt solid and cool as running water. The heat came suddenly as he crossed the intersecting streets. Manuel saw no one he knew in all the people he passed.

99Just before the Puerta del Sol he turned into a café.

100It was quiet in the café. There were a few men sitting at tables against the wall. At one table four men played cards. Most of the men sat against the wall smoking, empty coffee-cups and liqueur-glasses before them on the tables. Manuel went through the long room to a small room in back. A man sat at a table in the corner asleep. Manuel sat down at one of the tables.

101A waiter came in and stood beside Manuel’s table.

102“Have you seen Zurito?” Manuel asked him.

103“He was in before lunch,” the waiter answered. “He won’t be back before five o’clock.”

104“Bring me some coffee and milk and a shot of the ordinary,” Manuel said.

105The waiter came back into the room carrying a tray with a big coffee-glass and a liqueur-glass on it. In his left hand he held a bottle of brandy. He swung these down to the table and a boy who had followed him poured coffee and milk into the glass from two shiny, spouted pots with long handles.

106Manuel took off his cap and the waiter noticed his pigtail pinned forward on his head. He winked at the coffee-boy as he poured out the brandy into the little glass beside Manuel’s coffee. The coffee-boy looked at Manuel’s pale face curiously.

107“You fighting here?” asked the waiter, corking up the bottle.

108“Yes,” Manuel said. “To-morrow.”

109The waiter stood there, holding the bottle on one hip.

110“You in the Charlie Chaplins?” he asked.

111The coffee-boy looked away, embarrassed.

112“No. In the ordinary.”

113“I thought they were going to have Chaves and Hernandez,” the waiter said.

114“No. Me and another.”

115“Who? Chaves or Hernandez?”

116“Hernandez, I think.”

117“What’s the matter with Chaves?”

118“He got hurt.”

119“Where did you hear that?”

120“Retana.”

121“Hey, Looie,” the waiter called to the next room, “Chaves got cogida.”

122Manuel had taken the wrapper off the lumps of sugar and dropped them into his coffee. He stirred it and drank it down, sweet, hot, and warming in his empty stomach. He drank off the brandy.

123“Give me another shot of that,” he said to the waiter.

124The waiter uncorked the bottle and poured the glass full, slopping another drink into the saucer. Another waiter had come up in front of the table. The coffee-boy was gone.

125“Is Chaves hurt bad?” the second waiter asked Manuel.

126“I don’t know,” Manuel said, “Retana didn’t say.”

127“A hell of a lot he cares,” the tall waiter said. Manuel had not seen him before. He must have just come up.

128“If you stand in with Retana in this town, you’re a made man,” the tall waiter said. “If you aren’t in with him, you might just as well go out and shoot yourself.”

129“You said it,” the other waiter who had come in said. “You said it then.”

130“You’re right I said it,” said the tall waiter. “I know what I’m talking about when I talk about that bird.”

131“Look what he’s done for Villalta,” the first waiter said.

132“And that ain’t all,” the tall waiter said. “Look what he’s done for Marcial Lalanda. Look what he’s done for Nacional.”

133“You said it, kid,” agreed the short waiter.

134Manuel looked at them, standing talking in front of his table. He had drunk his second brandy. They had forgotten about him. They were not interested in him.

135“Look at that bunch of camels,” the tall waiter went on. “Did you ever see this Nacional II?”

136“I seen him last Sunday didn’t I?” the original waiter said.

137“He’s a giraffe,” the short waiter said.

138“What did I tell you?” the tall waiter said. “Those are Retana’s boys.”

139“Say, give me another shot of that,” Manuel said. He had poured the brandy the waiter had slopped over in the saucer into his glass and drank it while they were talking.

140The original waiter poured his glass full mechanically, and the three of them went out of the room talking.

141In the far corner the man was still asleep, snoring slightly on the intaking breath, his head back against the wall.

142Manuel drank his brandy. He felt sleepy himself. It was too hot to go out into the town. Besides there was nothing to do. He wanted to see Zurito. He would go to sleep while he waited. He kicked his suitcase under the table to be sure it was there. Perhaps it would be better to put it back under the seat, against the wall. He leaned down and shoved it under. Then he leaned forward on the table and went to sleep.

143When he woke there was some one sitting across the table from him. It was a big man with a heavy brown face like an Indian. He had been sitting there some time. He had waved the waiter away and sat reading the paper and occasionally looking down at Manuel, asleep, his head on the table. He read the paper laboriously, forming the words with his lips as he read. When it tired him he looked at Manuel. He sat heavily in the chair, his black Cordoba hat tipped forward.

144Manuel sat up and looked at him.

145“Hello, Zurito,” he said.

146“Hello, kid,” the big man said.

147“I’ve been asleep.” Manuel rubbed his forehead with the back of his fist.

148“I thought maybe you were.”

149“How’s everything?”

150“Good. How is everything with you?”

151“Not so good.”

152They were both silent. Zurito, the picador, looked at Manuel’s white face. Manuel looked down at the picador’s enormous hands folding the paper to put away in his pocket.

153“I got a favor to ask you, Manos,” Manuel said.

154Manosduros was Zurito’s nickname. He never heard it without thinking of his huge hands. He put them forward on the table self-consciously.

155“Let’s have a drink,” he said.

156“Sure,” said Manuel.

157The waiter came and went and came again. He went out of the room looking back at the two men at the table.

158“What’s the matter, Manolo?” Zurito set down his glass.

159“Would you pic two bulls for me to-morrow night?” Manuel asked, looking up at Zurito across the table.

160“No,” said Zurito. “I’m not pic-ing.”

161Manuel looked down at his glass. He had expected that answer; now he had it. Well, he had it.

162“I’m sorry, Manolo, but I’m not pic-ing.” Zurito looked at his hands.

163“That’s all right,” Manuel said.

164“I’m too old,” Zurito said.

165“I just asked you,” Manuel said.

166“Is it the nocturnal to-morrow?”

167“That’s it. I figured if I had just one good pic, I could get away with it.”

168“How much are you getting?”

169“Three hundred pesetas.”

170“I get more than that for pic-ing.”

171“I know,” said Manuel. “I didn’t have any right to ask you.”

172“What do you keep on doing it for?” Zurito asked. “Why don’t you cut off your coleta, Manolo?”

173“I don’t know,” Manuel said.

174“You’re pretty near as old as I am,” Zurito said.

175“I don’t know,” Manuel said. “I got to do it. If I can fix it so that I get an even break, that’s all I want. I got to stick with it, Manos.”

176“No, you don’t.”

177“Yes, I do. I’ve tried keeping away from it.”

178“I know how you feel. But it isn’t right. You ought to get out and stay out.”

179“I can’t do it. Besides, I’ve been going good lately.”

180Zurito looked at his face.

181“You’ve been in the hospital.”

182“But I was going great when I got hurt.”

183Zurito said nothing. He tipped the cognac out of his saucer into his glass.

184“The papers said they never saw a better faena,” Manuel said.

185Zurito looked at him.

186“You know when I get going I’m good,” Manuel said.

187“You’re too old,” the picador said.

188“No,” said Manuel. “You’re ten years older than I am.”

189“With me it’s different.”

190“I’m not too old,” Manuel said.

191They sat silent, Manuel watching the picador’s face.

192“I was going great till I got hurt,” Manuel offered.

193“You ought to have seen me, Manos,” Manuel said, reproachfully.

194“I don’t want to see you,” Zurito said. “It makes me nervous.”

195“You haven’t seen me lately.”

196“I’ve seen you plenty.”

197Zurito looked at Manuel, avoiding his eyes.

198“You ought to quit it, Manolo.”

199“I can’t,” Manuel said. “I’m going good now, I tell you.”

200Zurito leaned forward, his hands on the table.

201“Listen. I’ll pic for you and if you don’t go big to-morrow night, you’ll quit. See? Will you do that?”

202“Sure.”

203Zurito leaned back, relieved.

204“You got to quit,” he said. “No monkey business. You got to cut the coleta.”

205“I won’t have to quit,” Manuel said. “You watch me. I’ve got the stuff.”

206Zurito stood up. He felt tired from arguing.

207“You got to quit,” he said. “I’ll cut your coleta myself.”

208“No, you won’t,” Manuel said. “You won’t have a chance.”

209Zurito called the waiter.

210“Come on,” said Zurito. “Come on up to the house.”

211Manuel reached under the seat for his suitcase. He was happy. He knew Zurito would pic for him. He was the best picador living. It was all simple now.

212“Come on up to the house and we’ll eat,” Zurito said.

213Manuel stood in the patio de caballos waiting for the Charlie Chaplins to be over. Zurito stood beside him. Where they stood it was dark. The high door that led into the bull-ring was shut. Above them they heard a shout, then another shout of laughter. Then there was silence. Manuel liked the smell of the stables about the patio de caballos. It smelt good in the dark. There was another roar from the arena and then applause, prolonged applause, going on and on.

214“You ever seen these fellows?” Zurito asked, big and looming beside Manuel in the dark.

215“No,” Manuel said.

216“They’re pretty funny.” Zurito said. He smiled to himself in the dark.

217The high, double, tight-fitting door into the bull-ring swung open and Manuel saw the ring in the hard light of the arc-lights, the plaza, dark all the way around, rising high; around the edge of the ring were running and bowing two men dressed like tramps, followed by a third in the uniform of a hotel bell-boy who stooped and picked up the hats and canes thrown down onto the sand and tossed them back up into the darkness.

218The electric light went on in the patio.

219“I’ll climb onto one of those ponies while you collect the kids,” Zurito said.

220Behind them came the jingle of the mules, coming out to go into the arena and be hitched onto the dead bull.

221The members of the cuadrilla, who had been watching the burlesque from the runway between the barrera and the seats, came walking back and stood in a group talking, under the electric light in the patio. A good-looking lad in a silver-and-orange suit came up to Manuel and smiled.

222“I’m Hernandez,” he said and put out his hand.

223Manuel shook it.

224“They’re regular elephants we’ve got to-night,” the boy said cheerfully.

225“They’re big ones with horns,” Manuel agreed.

226“You drew the worst lot,” the boy said.

227“That’s all right,” Manuel said. “The bigger they are, the more meat for the poor.”

228“Where did you get that one?” Hernandez grinned.

229“That’s an old one,” Manuel said. “You line up your cuadrilla, so I can see what I’ve got.”

230“You’ve got some good kids,” Hernandez said. He was very cheerful. He had been on twice before in nocturnals and was beginning to get a following in Madrid. He was happy the fight would start in a few minutes.

231“Where are the pics?” Manuel asked.

232“They’re back in the corrals fighting about who gets the beautiful horses,” Hernandez grinned.

233The mules came through the gate in a rush, the whips snapping, bells jangling and the young bull ploughing a furrow of sand.

234They formed up for the paseo as soon as the bull had gone through.

235Manuel and Hernandez stood in front. The youths of the cuadrillas were behind, their heavy capes furled over their arms. In back, the four picadors, mounted, holding their steel-tipped push-poles erect in the half-dark of the corral.

236“It’s a wonder Retana wouldn’t give us enough light to see the horses by,” one picador said.

237“He knows we’ll be happier if we don’t get too good a look at these skins,” another pic answered.

238“This thing I’m on barely keeps me off the ground,” the first picador said.

239“Well, they’re horses.”

240“Sure, they’re horses.”

241They talked, sitting their gaunt horses in the dark.

242Zurito said nothing. He had the only steady horse of the lot. He had tried him, wheeling him in the corrals and he responded to the bit and the spurs. He had taken the bandage off his right eye and cut the strings where they had tied his ears tight shut at the base. He was a good, solid horse, solid on his legs. That was all he needed. He intended to ride him all through the corrida. He had already, since he had mounted, sitting in the half-dark in the big, quilted saddle, waiting for the paseo, pic-ed through the whole corrida in his mind. The other picadors went on talking on both sides of him. He did not hear them.

243The two matadors stood together in front of their three peones, their capes furled over their left arms in the same fashion. Manuel was thinking about the three lads in back of him. They were all three Madrileños, like Hernandez, boys about nineteen. One of them, a gypsy, serious, aloof, and dark-faced, he liked the look of. He turned.

244“What’s your name, kid?” he asked the gypsy.

245“Fuentes,” the gypsy said.

246“That’s a good name,” Manuel said.

247The gypsy smiled, showing his teeth.

248“You take the bull and give him a little run when he comes out,” Manuel said.

249“All right,” the gypsy said. His face was serious. He began to think about just what he would do.

250“Here she goes,” Manuel said to Hernandez.

251“All right. We’ll go.”

252Heads up, swinging with the music, their right arms swinging free, they stepped out, crossing the sanded arena under the arc-lights, the cuadrillas opening out behind, the picadors riding after, behind came the bull-ring servants and the jingling mules. The crowd applauded Hernandez as they marched across the arena. Arrogant, swinging, they looked straight ahead as they marched.

253They bowed before the president, and the procession broke up into its component parts. The bull-fighters went over to the barrera and changed their heavy mantles for the light fighting capes. The mules went out. The picadors galloped jerkily around the ring, and two rode out the gate they had come in by. The servants swept the sand smooth.

254Manuel drank a glass of water poured for him by one of Retana’s deputies, who was acting as his manager and sword-handler. Hernandez came over from speaking with his own manager.

255“You got a good hand, kid,” Manuel complimented him.

256“They like me,” Hernandez said happily.

257“How did the paseo go?” Manuel asked Retana’s man.

258“Like a wedding,” said the handler. “Fine. You came out like Joselito and Belmonte.”

259Zurito rode by, a bulky equestrian statue. He wheeled his horse and faced him toward the toril on the far side of the ring where the bull would come out. It was strange under the arc-light. He pic-ed in the hot afternoon sun for big money. He didn’t like this arc-light business. He wished they would get started.

260Manuel went up to him.

261“Pic him, Manos,” he said. “Cut him down to size for me.”

262“I’ll pic him, kid,” Zurito spat on the sand. “I’ll make him jump out of the ring.”

263“Lean on him, Manos,” Manuel said.

264“I’ll lean on him,” Zurito said. “What’s holding it up?”

265“He’s coming now,” Manuel said.

266Zurito sat there, his feet in the box-stirrups, his great legs in the buckskin-covered armor gripping the horse, the reins in his left hand, the long pic held in his right hand, his broad hat well down over his eyes to shade them from the lights, watching the distant door of the toril. His horse’s ears quivered. Zurito patted him with his left hand.

267The red door of the toril swung back and for a moment Zurito looked into the empty passageway far across the arena. Then the bull came out in a rush, skidding on his four legs as he came out under the lights, then charging in a gallop, moving softly in a fast gallop, silent except as he woofed through wide nostrils as he charged, glad to be free after the dark pen.

268In the first row of seats, slightly bored, leaning forward to write on the cement wall in front of his knees, the substitute bull-fight critic of El Heraldo scribbled: “Campagnero, Negro, 42, came out at 90 miles an hour with plenty of gas——”

269Manuel, leaning against the barrera, watching the bull, waved his hand and the gypsy ran out, trailing his cape. The bull, in full gallop, pivoted and charged the cape, his head down, his tail rising. The gypsy moved in a zigzag, and as he passed, the bull caught sight of him and abandoned the cape to charge the man. The gyp sprinted and vaulted the red fence of the barrera as the bull struck it with his horns. He tossed into it twice with his horns, banging into the wood blindly.

270The critic of El Heraldo lit a cigarette and tossed the match at the bull, then wrote in his note-book, “large and with enough horns to satisfy the cash customers, Campagnero showed a tendency to cut into the terrane of the bull-fighters.”

271Manuel stepped out on the hard sand as the bull banged into the fence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zurito sitting the white horse close to the barrera, about a quarter of the way around the ring to the left. Manuel held the cape close in front of him, a fold in each hand, and shouted at the bull. “Huh! Huh!” The bull turned, seemed to brace against the fence as he charged in a scramble, driving into the cape as Manuel side-stepped, pivoted on his heels with the charge of the bull, and swung the cape just ahead of the horns. At the end of the swing he was facing the bull again and held the cape in the same position close in front of his body, and pivoted again as the bull recharged. Each time, as he swung, the crowd shouted.

272Four times he swung with the bull, lifting the cape so it billowed full, and each time bringing the bull around to charge again. Then, at the end of the fifth swing, he held the cape against his hip and pivoted, so the cape swung out like a ballet dancer’s skirt and wound the bull around himself like a belt, to step clear, leaving the bull facing Zurito on the white horse, come up and planted firm, the horse facing the bull, its ears forward, its lips nervous, Zurito, his hat over his eyes, leaning forward, the long pole sticking out before and behind in a sharp angle under his right arm, held half-way down, the triangular iron point facing the bull.

273El Heraldo’s second-string critic, drawing on his cigarette, his eyes on the bull, wrote: “the veteran Manolo designed a series of acceptable veronicas, ending in a very Belmontistic recorte that earned applause from the regulars, and we entered the tercio of the cavalry.”

274Zurito sat his horse, measuring the distance between the bull and the end of the pic. As he looked, the bull gathered himself together and charged, his eyes on the horse’s chest. As he lowered his head to hook, Zurito sunk the point of the pic in the swelling hump of muscle above the bull’s shoulder, leaned all his weight on the shaft, and with his left hand pulled the white horse into the air, front hoofs pawing, and swung him to the right as he pushed the bull under and through so the horns passed safely under the horse’s belly and the horse came down, quivering, the bull’s tail brushing his chest as he charged the cape Hernandez offered him.

275Hernandez ran sideways, taking the bull out and away with the cape, toward the other picador. He fixed him with a swing of the cape, squarely facing the horse and rider, and stepped back. As the bull saw the horse he charged. The picador’s lance slid along his back, and as the shock of the charge lifted the horse, the picador was already half-way out of the saddle, lifting his right leg clear as he missed with the lance and falling to the left side to keep the horse between him and the bull. The horse, lifted and gored, crashed over with the bull driving into him, the picador gave a shove with his boots against the horse and lay clear, waiting to be lifted and hauled away and put on his feet.

276Manuel let the bull drive into the fallen horse; he was in no hurry, the picador was safe; besides, it did a picador like that good to worry. He’d stay on longer next time. Lousy pics! He looked across the sand at Zurito a little way out from the barrera, his horse rigid, waiting.

277“Huh!” he called to the bull, “Tomar!” holding the cape in both hands so it would catch his eye. The bull detached himself from the horse and charged the cape, and Manuel, running sideways and holding the cape spread wide, stopped, swung on his heels, and brought the bull sharply around facing Zurito.

278“Campagnero accepted a pair of varas for the death of one rosinante, with Hernandez and Manolo at the quites,” El Heraldo’s critic wrote. “He pressed on the iron and clearly showed he was no horse-lover. The veteran Zurito resurrected some of his old stuff with the pike-pole, notably the suerte——”

279“Olé Olé!” the man sitting beside him shouted. The shout was lost in the roar of the crowd, and he slapped the critic on the back. The critic looked up to see Zurito, directly below him, leaning far out over his horse, the length of the pic rising in a sharp angle under his armpit, holding the pic almost by the point, bearing down with all his weight, holding the bull off, the bull pushing and driving to get at the horse, and Zurito, far out, on top of him, holding him, holding him, and slowly pivoting the horse against the pressure, so that at last he was clear. Zurito felt the moment when the horse was clear and the bull could come past, and relaxed the absolute steel lock of his resistance, and the triangular steel point of the pic ripped in the bull’s hump of shoulder muscle as he tore loose to find Hernandez’s cape before his muzzle. He charged blindly into the cape and the boy took him out into the open arena.

280Zurito sat patting his horse and looking at the bull charging the cape that Hernandez swung for him out under the bright light while the crowd shouted.

281“You see that one?” he said to Manuel.

282“It was a wonder,” Manuel said.

283“I got him that time,” Zurito said. “Look at him now.”

284At the conclusion of a closely turned pass of the cape the bull slid to his knees. He was up at once, but far out across the sand Manuel and Zurito saw the shine of the pumping flow of blood, smooth against the black of the bull’s shoulder.

285“I got him that time,” Zurito said.

286“He’s a good bull,” Manuel said.

287“If they gave me another shot at him, I’d kill him,” Zurito said.

288“They’ll change the thirds on us,” Manuel said.

289“Look at him now,” Zurito said.

290“I got to go over there,” Manuel said, and started on a run for the other side of the ring, where the monos were leading a horse out by the bridle toward the bull, whacking him on the legs with rods and all, in a procession, trying to get him toward the bull, who stood, dropping his head, pawing, unable to make up his mind to charge.

291Zurito, sitting his horse, walking him toward the scene, not missing any detail, scowled.

292Finally the bull charged, the horse leaders ran for the barrera, the picador hit too far back, and the bull got under the horse, lifted him, threw him onto his back.

293Zurito watched. The monos, in their red shirts, running out to drag the picador clear. The picador, now on his feet, swearing and flopping his arms. Manuel and Hernandez standing ready with their capes. And the bull, the great, black bull, with a horse on his back, hooves dangling, the bridle caught in the horns. Black bull with a horse on his back, staggering short-legged, then arching his neck and lifting, thrusting, charging to slide the horse off, horse sliding down. Then the bull into a lunging charge at the cape Manuel spread for him.

294The bull was slower now, Manuel felt. He was bleeding badly. There was a sheen of blood all down his flank.

295Manuel offered him the cape again. There he came, eyes open, ugly, watching the cape. Manuel stepped to the side and raised his arms, tightening the cape ahead of the bull for the veronica.

296Now he was facing the bull. Yes, his head was going down a little. He was carrying it lower. That was Zurito.

297Manuel flopped the cape; there he comes; he side-stepped and swung in another veronica. He’s shooting awfully accurately, he thought. He’s had enough fight, so he’s watching now. He’s hunting now. Got his eye on me. But I always give him the cape.

298He shook the cape at the bull; there he comes; he side-stepped. Awful close that time. I don’t want to work that close to him.

299The edge of the cape was wet with blood where it had swept along the bull’s back as he went by.

300All right, here’s the last one.

301Manuel, facing the bull, having turned with him each charge, offered the cape with his two hands. The bull looked at him. Eyes watching, horns straight forward, the bull looked at him, watching.

302“Huh!” Manuel said, “Toro!” and leaning back, swung the cape forward. Here he comes. He side-stepped, swung the cape in back of him, and pivoted, so the bull followed a swirl of cape and then was left with nothing, fixed by the pass, dominated by the cape. Manuel swung the cape under his muzzle with one hand, to show the bull was fixed, and walked away.

303There was no applause.

304Manuel walked across the sand toward the barrera, while Zurito rode out of the ring. The trumpet had blown to change the act to the planting of the banderillos while Manuel had been working with the bull. He had not consciously noticed it. The monos were spreading canvas over the two dead horses and sprinkling sawdust around them.

305Manuel came up to the barrera for a drink of water. Retana’s man handed him the heavy porous jug.

306Fuentes, the tall gypsy, was standing holding a pair of banderillos, holding them together, slim, red sticks, fish-hook points out. He looked at Manuel.

307“Go on out there,” Manuel said.

308The gypsy trotted out. Manuel set down the jug and watched. He wiped his face with his handkerchief.

309The critic of El Heraldo reached for the bottle of warm champagne that stood between his feet, took a drink, and finished his paragraph.

310“—the aged Manolo rated no applause for a vulgar series of lances with the cape and we entered the third of the palings.”

311Alone in the centre of the ring the bull stood, still fixed. Fuentes, tall, flat-backed, walking toward him arrogantly, his arms spread out, the two slim, red sticks, one in each hand, held by the fingers, points straight forward. Fuentes walked forward. Back of him and to one side was a peon with a cape. The bull looked at him and was no longer fixed.

312His eyes watched Fuentes, now standing still. Now he leaned back, calling to him. Fuentes twitched the two banderillos and the light on the steel points caught the bull’s eye.

313His tail went up and he charged.

314He came straight, his eyes on the man. Fuentes stood still, leaning back, the banderillos pointing forward. As the bull lowered his head to hook, Fuentes leaned backward, his arms came together and rose, his two hands touching, the banderillos two descending red lines, and leaning forward drove the points into the bull’s shoulder, leaning far in over the bull’s horns and pivoting on the two upright sticks, his legs tight together, his body curving to one side to let the bull pass.

315“Olé!” from the crowd.

316The bull was hooking wildly, jumping like a trout, all four feet off the ground. The red shaft of the banderillos tossed as he jumped.

317Manuel standing at the barrera, noticed that he hooked always to the right.

318“Tell him to drop the next pair on the right,” he said to the kid who started to run out to Fuentes with the new banderillos.

319A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. It was Zurito.

320“How do you feel, kid?” he asked.

321Manuel was watching the bull.

322Zurito leaned forward on the barrera, leaning the weight of his body on his arms. Manuel turned to him.

323“You’re going good,” Zurito said.

324Manuel shook his head. He had nothing to do now until the next third. The gypsy was very good with the banderillos. The bull would come to him in the next third in good shape. He was a good bull. It had all been easy up to now. The final stuff with the sword was all he worried over. He did not really worry. He did not even think about it. But standing there he had a heavy sense of apprehension. He looked out at the bull, planning his faena, his work with the red cloth that was to reduce the bull, to make him manageable.

325The gypsy was walking out toward the bull again, walking heel-and-toe, insultingly, like a ball-room dancer, the red shafts of the banderillos twitching with his walk. The bull watched him, not fixed now, hunting him, but waiting to get close enough so he could be sure of getting him, getting the horns into him.

326As Fuentes walked forward the bull charged. Fuentes ran across the quarter of a circle as the bull charged and, as he passed running backward, stopped, swung forward, rose on his toes, arms straight out, and sunk the banderillos straight down into the tight of the big shoulder muscles as the bull missed him.

327The crowd were wild about it.

328“That kid won’t stay in this night stuff long,” Retana’s man said to Zurito.

329“He’s good,” Zurito said.

330“Watch him now.”

331They watched.

332Fuentes was standing with his back against the barrera. Two of the cuadrilla were back of him, with their capes ready to flop over the fence to distract the bull.

333The bull, with his tongue out, his barrel heaving, was watching the gypsy. He thought he had him now. Back against the red planks. Only a short charge away. The bull watched him.

334The gypsy bent back, drew back his arms, the banderillos pointing at the bull. He called to the bull, stamped one foot. The bull was suspicious. He wanted the man. No more barbs in the shoulder.