The throng about the large cedar-post corral was oddly subdued. Some
of the _vaqueros_ had dragged the blue bull over to the cooking fire
for Jacinto to spit, but the gross cook had left the carcass lying
on the ground. He stood with the middle bar of the fence making a
deep indentation in the incredible protuberance of his stomach as the
crowding _vaqueros_ pressed in from behind.
"_Madre de Dios_, Crawford, why do you let him do this thing?" wailed
the cook, running his fat hands nervously up and down the rail. "I
don't want to see a man die."
"Then why watch?" said Crawford.
"Please, Crawford, you take such a brutal attitude. Don't you know this
is the way Oro Peso died down in Mexico? He was the greatest roper in
the world, Quartel's boasting to the contrary. Oro Peso used to go
around making this same bet. Then somebody took him up on it. The third
bull pulled him from his horse. His neck was broken like you'd snap a
switch of mesquite. Please--"
"Hola, _compadres_!" shouted Quartel, from outside the corral, and
they saw that he had stripped his _trigueño_ of its saddle. Indita
dropped the bar and Quartel trotted the animal in, laughing as the
bulls bunched up on the other side, bawling. "You see, already they are
afraid of me. Who is going to put the blindfold on? Merida, will you
honor me?"
"Why not?" The woman's voice held a savage undertone that surprised
Crawford. She caught his eyes on her and turned toward Crawford. When
she saw the look on his face, she threw her head back that way, to
laugh. It held a rich, wild mockery. "What's the matter, Crawford?
Don't you like that in a woman? Maybe you haven't known the right
women."
Still laughing, she reached through the bars to tie the bandanna behind
Quartet's head as the man slipped off the _trigueño_ and turned his
back to her. Then he swung aboard again, and tied one end of the rope
he was carrying about his thick neck in a noose, too small to slip over
his head. Merida's face was flushed excitedly as she watched him prance
the _trigueño_ away, and her eyes flashed in frank anticipation. Huerta
pulled out his cigarette case and put a smoke into his jade holder.
His motions were as languid as ever, but Crawford thought his fingers
pinched the holder more tightly than was necessary.
"Hola!" shouted Quartel, wheeling his _trigueño_ in the middle of the
corral and kicking its flanks with his heels. The horse charged toward
the bulls, and the animals strung out along the fence. Quartel was an
uncanny judge of distance; when his horse was but half a length from
the fence, he made a quarter turn and raced along the bars after the
last bull in the running bunch.
"_Andale!_" yelled the man, and made his toss.
The loop snaked about the forefeet of that last bull as it turned at
the corner of the corral, and as Quartel felt the rope snap taut, he
let go completely with his hands, pulling his thick neck down into
his shoulders to set it and jerking back with his torso at the last
moment. The bull turned a flip, its shoulder striking the rump of the
running animal in front, and as the falling bull struck, Quartel shoved
his reins hard against the _trigueño's_ neck to wheel inward and give
himself slack on the rope. He clutched for the slackening rawhide
and sent a flirt down the rope that lifted the loop off the bull's
forelegs, and when he turned away, he was pulling the line in.
"_Viva Quartel, viva!_" shouted the _vaqueros_, shoving Crawford up
against the fence with their shifting press and deafening him with
their cheers. Grinning, Quartel kicked the _trigueño_ after the bulls
again. It started them off once more, bawling and running. Quartel's
hearing was as uncanny as his judgment of distance; he rode with his
head lifted, and when a scarred brindle bull broke from the others,
running along the fence and cutting across the middle of the corral,
Crawford could see Quartel's head turn after the animal. The Mexican
reined his _trigueño_ over that way, kicking it into a dead run that
closed the space between himself and the bull in a swift instant.
"_Ahora_," he shouted, "now," and tossed. His rope caught the bull's
hind feet instead of its forefeet, and as a strange sighing sound rose
from the crowd, Quartel must have sensed something was wrong, for he
spurred the _trigueño_ brutally, and its frenzied leap into a headlong
run gave him slack enough in the rope for that last moment to send a
flirt down its length that carried the loop off the bull's hind feet
before it could draw closed. The bull stumbled into the other animals
as they turned the corner and milled down this side of the corral. By
that time Quartel had his rope coiled, and he maneuvered the bawling,
excited animals so that they strung out down the fence once more,
and then ran his horse up behind the last one. This time it was the
forefeet, and he dropped the animal, breaking its neck as before. The
end of the rope about Quartel's neck was not a slip noose, but Crawford
could see the rawhide dig into the thick brown flesh of Quartel's neck
as he jerked back, till the skin showed a white ridge above and below
the lasso. He watched in undeniable fascination as the Mexican flirted
in the rope and turned his horse after them once more. Shouting,
Quartel closed the gap between himself and another bull and made his
toss. He released the lasso with his hand as soon as it was in the
air. The instant that loop caught on the running bull's forefeet,
Quartel reined his _trigueño_ in a quarter turn that wheeled it away
from the running bull. The bull's own forward motion would draw the
noose tight about its legs, and the turning maneuver of the horse would
stretch the rope taut between them as soon as that noose was completely
closed. In that instant, with the bull hitting the end of the rope and
flipping, Quartel had to wheel his horse back or be pulled off. He had
already turned the _trigueño_ away from the bull, and the noose was
making its singing sound closing on those churning forefeet, when a big
_hosco golondrino_ cut away from the other animals running along the
fence and turned out into the corral, directly across the head of the
_trigueño_. Quartel's huge neck sank into his shoulders, and he put the
reins against the _trigueño's_ neck to swerve it back as he felt the
rope snapping taut. But the turn would have run the horse head-on into
the _hosco golondrino_. It was the first time Crawford had seen that
_trigueño_ fight the bit; its head turned in and its neck arched, it
lurched in the opposite direction from Quartel's reining.
"Crawford," screamed Merida, and then the full weight of the falling
bull hit the end of that rope with Quartel going in the wrong direction
to take the shock. He made a small, choked sound as he was snapped off
the _trigueño's_ rump. Crawford was not conscious of going through
the bars. He found himself on the inside of the corral, with someone
climbing through the rails on his left. He did not realize who it was
till he had started running toward Quartel where he was rolling across
the ground. Then from the corner of his eye, Crawford caught the white
flutter of Merida's fichu.
"Get back, you crazy fool," he screamed at her, diving headlong at her
as a couple of crazed bulls charged by. He struck her with his arms
around her waist and carried her back against the bars as a third
animal crashed past where she had been standing. He rolled to his feet,
leaving her there huddled up against the fence, and dodged through
another pair of the bawling, frenzied animals, coughing in the dust.
The bull Quartel had thrown was scrambling to its feet, the _reata_
still caught around one foreleg. Crawford saw the slack rope hiss
taut as the animal broke into a stumbling gallop, and knew he could
never reach it in time. If Quartel's neck were not already broken, his
head would be pulled from his body now. Another bull went past behind
Crawford, its shoulder sending him spinning, and he threw himself
bodily toward the rope where it lay tautening across the ground, in a
last desperate effort to try and get it before the bull had stretched
it completely.
But even as he did so, he saw Quartel had risen to his hands and
knees. Still blindfolded, the man must have heard the sing of the rope
and known what was occurring. He gave his head one dazed shake and
jumped to his feet, sinking his neck in that way and throwing himself
backward. His body was at a three-quarter angle when the rope snapped
taut; he would have fallen completely if the line had not caught him.
The impetus of his jerking back that way and the weight of his body
combined to upset the bull once more. The ground shuddered to the
falling animal. Crawford heard the crack of its broken neck.
"How's that, Huerta?" laughed Quartel, running forward to slacken the
rope so he could flirt the loop free. "I told you I wouldn't pull on
it by hand. Did you see that? I didn't touch it with my hands, did I?
I'll bet you never saw a roper could do that down around Mexico City.
Even Oro Peso. Did you think I was finished? Not with a neck like that.
I could throw ten bulls all at once. Where's my horse? Bring me that
_trigueño_. I'm not through yet. Not with a neck like that."
In a daze, Crawford picked himself off the ground, seeing Indita run
out to corner the _trigueño_ and lead him over to the sweating, roaring
Quartel. Stumbling back to the fence, Crawford watched the whole crazy
performance begin once more. It was a nightmare of shouting _vaqueros_
and bawling bulls and singing ropes and clouds of acrid russet dust
obscuring the whole pattern every time the animals broke into a run.
Quartel took three casts to nail the seventh bull, and it was obvious
he was tiring.
"Three more," Crawford heard Jacinto mumbling beside him. "Three more.
Oh, _madre de Dios_, let him get over with this, will you, and I'll
never forget to say my rosary again. Three more, three more--"
Two more. One more. "Hola!" shouted the Mexican, "_ahora_," and
the rope spun, and caught, and tautened, and the ground shook as
the last bull broke its neck. Coiling in the rope, Quartel spurred
the _trigueño_ to the gate, ripping off his blindfold. They were
all running that way, Aforismo catching the man as he slid off the
lathered, quivering horse, pounding him on the back. Even Merida had
lifted her skirts to run that way, drawn by the excitement. Quartel
came through the crowd, sweating and grinning and pounding himself
on the chest with his hairy fist. "I told you. The best roper in the
world. What do you think of it, Huerta? Have you ever seen better? Was
Oro Peso better?" Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he sobered,
looking around at the _vaqueros_. "When I was pulled off the horse.
Someone was in the corral. I heard them."
The hubbub sank until there was only the muffled sound of stirring
bodies, and Quartel saw the direction their glances had taken, one
after another. He stared at Crawford in disbelief.
"You--"
Crawford shrugged, sullenly. "It was automatic, I guess. I didn't
think."
"Yes." Huerta allowed twin streamers of gray smoke to escape his
nostrils. "I wonder what would have happened if you had stopped to
think."
Crawford flushed, turning toward him, but Quartel came forward,
clapping his hand on Crawford's shoulder. "Huerta, I'm surprised at
you. After all, he saved my life. And how about you. A _talega_ of
pesos."
"I made no wager," said Huerta, tapping ash from his cigarette.
The blood swept into Quartel's face, and he stepped forward to grab the
lapels of Huerta's coat with one huge hand, jerking the man toward him.
"Huerta, I bet you a _talega_ of pesos--"
"I made no wager." Huerta had not moved his hands. One of them still
held the cigarette holder at his side; the other rested in the pocket
of his coat. But he was looking into Quartel's eyes, and his own eyes
had opened wider. The veined dissolution of his heavy bluish lids had
lifted until the whole pupil was visible.
"That's right, that's right," said Jacinto nervously. "Huerta didn't
take up your bet, Quartel. You was so busy shouting and all you didn't
wait to see if he'd made the bet with you."
"If he had, he'd pay me," said Quartel, still looking into Huerta's
eyes, an indefinable puzzlement drawing a faint furrow through his
brow, and something else. Abruptly he turned around, raising his voice.
"_Caramba_, if I ain't going to get a _talega_ of pesos, I should get
some kind of reward. You don't see a rodeo like that every day. How
about it, Merida? I want a reward--"
He had shoved through the crowd toward her, catching her around the
waist. Apparently not divining his intent at first, she had been
smiling, her face still flushed with that excitement. But as he caught
her and bent his face to hers, the smile twisted into a grimace. She
threw her forearm across his neck and tried to lever him away.
"_Vayase con la música a otra parte_," she cried, anger causing her to
break into Spanish. "_Tu barrachon, largo de aqui, tu chile, no puedo
sufrir su insolencia--_"
"My insolence?" laughed Quartel, grasping her wrist and tearing it from
between them. The force of it drew a gasp of pain from Merida; she
began writhing more violently in his embrace, and tried to scratch his
face with the other hand. But he caught that too, and forced both her
hands behind her until he had her wrists crossed with his arms about
her waist. In that last moment, he quit grinning. Crawford had seen the
same expression in the man's face before, when he looked at Merida, but
never so palpable, never so clearly recognizable. His voice came from
deep in his throat, husky and sensual and demanding.
"_Besame, querida_," he said, and lowered his sweating face to hers.
"Let her go, Quartel!"
The Mexican stopped, with his lips not quite touching Merida. The
woman's body ceased to writhe; she stood there in his arms, bent
backward like a bow, looking up at him. Without releasing her, Quartel
raised his head and turned it over his shoulder till he could see
Crawford. It had taken Crawford that long to get through the laughing,
shouting crowd; they were no longer making any noise, and they had
spread away from him. He stood there with his boots spread a little on
the hard-packed dirt and the weight of his shoulders thrown forward,
the bitter intensity of his face only accentuating its gauntness.
"Oh." The word came out softly, slyly on Quartel's breath. "Maybe you'd
rather be the one to kiss her. First he saves my life, then he wants to
take my woman away."
"Your woman?" gasped Merida.
"Take your hands off, damn you--"
"Don't swear at me, Crawford." The hurt tone of Quartel's voice held
that pawky mockery. "I thought we were _amigos_. I thought you saved my
life in the corrals."
"Quartel--"
"_Sí?_" The man had released Merida and wheeled to face Crawford. For
a moment he stood there, his heavy chest rising and falling gently
with his breathing. The mockery faded from his face, leaving a heavy,
deliberate intent. His shift to the side was unhurried, but Crawford's
effort to keep facing the man came in a swift, spasmodic reaction. Then
Quartel stood there again. "Nobody swears at me, Crawford," he said,
and then, moving with incredible speed for such a bulky man, he leaped
forward. Crawford had been waiting for something, but it came so fast
his move to block it was aborted. Quartel had him by the shoulders,
knocking him off balance, and Crawford had to stumble backward to keep
from falling. "Do you understand that?" Quartel was shouting it now,
hoarsely, allowing his ebullience to escape finally. "I'm _amansador_,
here, I'm foreman, and nobody swears at me or tries to stop me whatever
I'm doing. I rod this outfit and I can do anything I want and nobody
can stop me, do you hear?"
It was then Crawford realized what he had brought up against. Stumbling
backward, he had lurched into the _trigueño_ and it had kept him from
falling. He was held against it now by Quartel's hands gripping his
shoulders. The animal heat of it penetrated through his shirt, and
something else clawed at him, somewhere way down in his vitals.
In a new spasm, Crawford tried to lurch free of Quartel's grip; but
the man had still managed to keep him off balance, and he was held
there, with his knees bent and his body pushed off to one side so that
he had no leverage. He was shoved back hard against the horse again,
and the hot, living, hairy, animal resilience of it against his back
intensified that vague alarm inside him.
"Do you hear me, Crawford, do you hear me--"
Quartel's voice came through to him as if the man were far away.
Crawford was writhing from side to side, trying to escape, but he was
still held at that disadvantage. He had his hands on the man's arms,
tearing at them. The effort rocked Quartel from side to side, but
failed to loosen his grip. Crawford's face was twisted, and he was
gasping hoarsely, because it was growing in him now, raking at him
insistently with its subtle, insidious nails. His legs were beginning
to tremble and the muscles across his belly were twisting up into
little involuntary knots.
"Let go, let go--"
The violent movement and their shouting had excited the horse, and
it began to shift around behind Crawford. It had been standing there
against the fence where Quartel left it when he slid off. Crawford
had it pinned up against the bars, and the animal whinnied nervously,
trying to get from between him and the fence. Aforismo moved from the
crowd to grab the _trigueño's_ reins and pull its head down.
"What's the matter, Juarez?" he said. "Crawford, don't do that, you're
spooking this horse."
"Yeah, quit shouting!" roared Quartel. "Can't you see what you're doing
to my _trigueño_? Hasn't he been through enough today? Quit jumping
around like that."
He realized what they were doing. That had been the intent in Quartel's
face. It didn't help him now to understand. Nothing helped him now. It
had its grip on him. His struggles had become a blind, frenetic effort
to escape. Not from Quartel, now. It was the horse. The shrill sound
of the _trigueño's_ whinny and the rising turbulence of the beast's
nervous movement against him drove Crawford to a new violence in his
attempts at escape. It was no longer small or vague in him. It filled
his whole consciousness. It spread through his legs and lower body in a
clutching, stabbing pain that caused his knees to tremble and jerk. It
filled his chest with a terrible constriction. And as before, the pain
was rapidly turning to something else.
"Let go, damn you, let go--"
He was screaming it now, in animal panic, his face contorted, his
whole body writhing and struggling in a blind frenzy that only excited
the horse further. He felt it rear up, and would have fallen backward
beneath it had not Aforismo yanked it down hard with his grip on the
reins. The hot hide was wet with nervous sweat against Crawford's back,
and he could feel the ripple of its muscle with every movement it made,
and every ripple sent a new wave of panic through him. All reason
was gone from his mind and he was sinking into a dark vortex of that
terrible panic like a cow sinking into a black bog.
"What's the matter, Crawford? Are you afraid of the horse?"
"Let go, please, for God's sake, let go."
"What's the matter, Crawford?"
"Leggo, leggo, leggo--"
He stopped screaming. It took him a long time to comprehend he was no
longer being held against the horse. He crouched there on his knees
where he had fallen when Quartel had stepped back, releasing him. The
movement of the animal behind him raised a flurry of dirty brown dust.
Coughing in it, Crawford stared up at Quartel. The rage had disappeared
from Quartel's face. His lips were spread in that pawky smile.
"Sure," he said, "I'll let you go. What will you do if I let you go?"
Aforismo had pulled the _trigueño_ out from behind him now, and
Crawford crouched there on his hands and knees, black hair falling
dankly over his feverish eyes. He looked like a trapped animal, his
breath escaping him in hoarse gasps, his head turning in quick jerks as
his wild glance leaped from one person to another. First it was Merida.
There was a desperate plea in the way she bent toward him, her bosom
rising and falling, her red lower lip dropped away from the shadowed
white line of her teeth, glistening damply. Then Huerta, managing to
convey a bored amusement without actually expressing anything in his
face, as he studied Crawford distantly. And Jacinto, great, lugubrious
globules of sweat sliding down his brown face, wringing his fat hands,
making small, unintelligible sounds of pain.
A vagrant anger swept Crawford and he tried to collect it and hold it
in him, bitter and acrid and violent. But it held no strength, and a
shift of the wind swept the fetor of the _trigueño_ to him once more,
and the anger disappeared. There was none of the spasm of panic now.
It was heavy and oppressive in him, holding him down like a physical
weight, robbing him of all resolve, dominating all other emotion. He
was still shaking violently, and the salty tears blinded him. He felt a
dim impulse to move twitch at his legs, and he knew a moment there when
he thought he could rise. Then he heard the guttural, frustrated sound
he made, and knew he was still on the ground, and felt an overpowering
impulse to give way and cry.
"I thought so," said Quartel, and turned to take the reins from
Aforismo. He checked the animal to prevent its whirling away from him,
and jumped onto its back. He released the rein, and the _trigueño's_
head came around with a snap as it spun to trot off toward the fires.
The other _vaqueros_ followed one by one, in an uncomfortable silence.
Huerta patted a yawn.
"They've got some cane chairs over under those coma trees," he said. "I
think I'll watch the proceedings from there. Coming, Merida?"
She did not answer. She was looking at Crawford, her face pale. Huerta
shrugged, moved languidly across the dusty compound. Then it was just
the two of them, with Crawford finally gaining his feet, unable to meet
her eyes. Merida's weight had settled back onto her high heels slowly.
That ripe lower lip had contracted against her teeth till her mouth was
twisted across them faintly. Her husky voice was barely audible.
"I had hoped Huerta was wrong."
He stared at her, wanting to turn and run, unable to, somehow, and
finally it came from him, guttural, hardly recognizable. "Whadda you
mean?"
"About that fellow in the mine," she said.
"Whaddaya mean?" Had that been him? Shrill, and cracked, like that?
"You know what I mean," she said. "Not only pain. Fear. And not only
fear of what originally caused the pain."
"No--"
"Yes!" she said thinly. "Yes! It's not just the horses any more. It's
everything. You're a coward, Crawford. You're a coward!"
_Chapter Nine_