"I didn't say that."
"Listen," he shouted, thumping his chest, "I am the best goddam roper
in the world. I am the best goddam rider in the world. I am--"
"Don't be a boor," said Huerta, in faint disgust.
"A what?" Quartel wheeled the horse around in a growing rage, the sweat
greasing his coarse face. "I'll show you." He started pounding his
chest again. "I'll show you who's good. I'll make you a bet. I'll bet
you a _talega_ full of gold pesos that I can, blindfolded, with one end
of the _reata_ tied to my own neck and not to be touched by my hands,
riding a bareback horse of your own choosing, forefoot each of any ten
bulls we got in a pen, and break their necks."
Huerta shrugged, smiling in a faint, vague dismissal. Quartel reined
the _trigueño_ in closer. "I mean it," he bellowed. "Are you afraid to
make the bet? Could anybody where you come from do it?"
"Frankly, I don't think anyone can do it," said Huerta, disinterestedly.
"I can," yelled Quartel. "I'm the best--"
"Don't be a fool, Quartel," the woman told him.
"You'll kill yourself. One mistake with that rope around your neck and
you'll be dead."
That was the final impetus. "_Hijo de la chingada_," shouted Quartel,
whirling his _trigueño_ away from them. "How many bulls you got in that
corral, Aforismo? Seven? Get me three more. Get me three more from that
holding pen across the arroyo. I'll show you what roping really is,
Merida. You're going to see a performance tonight you'll never forget!"
_Chapter Eight_