I TELL this for a fact. It happened in the bull-ring at Quito. I sat
in the box with John Harned, and with Maria Valenzuela, and with Luis
Cervallos. I saw it happen. I saw it all from first to last. I was on
the steamer Ecuadore from Panama to Guayaquil. Maria Valenzuela is
my cousin. I have known her always. She is very beautiful. I am a
Spaniard--an Ecuadoriano, true, but I am descended from Pedro Patino,
who was one of Pizarro's captains. They were brave men. They were
heroes. Did not Pizarro lead three hundred and fifty Spanish cavaliers
and four thousand Indians into the far Cordilleras in search of
treasure? And did not all the four thousand Indians and three hundred
of the brave cavaliers die on that vain quest? But Pedro Patino did
not die. He it was that lived to found the family of the Patino. I am
Ecuadoriano, true, but I am Spanish. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. I own
many haciendas, and ten thousand Indians are my slaves, though the law
says they are free men who work by freedom of contract. The law is a
funny thing. We Ecuadorianos laugh at it. It is our law. We make it for
ourselves. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. Remember that name. It will be
written some day in history. There are revolutions in Ecuador. We call
them elections. It is a good joke is it not?--what you call a pun?
John Harned was an American. I met him first at the Tivoli hotel in
Panama. He had much money--this I have heard. He was going to Lima,
but he met Maria Valenzuela in the Tivoli hotel. Maria Valenzuela is
my cousin, and she is beautiful. It is true, she is the most beautiful
woman in Ecuador. But also is she most beautiful in every country--in
Paris, in Madrid, in New York, in Vienna. Always do all men look at her,
and John Harned looked long at her at Panama. He loved her, that I know
for a fact. She was Ecuadoriano, true--but she was of all countries; she
was of all the world. She spoke many languages. She sang--ah! like an
artiste. Her smile--wonderful, divine. Her eyes--ah! have I not seen
men look in her eyes? They were what you English call amazing. They were
promises of paradise. Men drowned themselves in her eyes.
Maria Valenzuela was rich--richer than I, who am accounted very rich in
Ecuador. But John Harned did not care for her money. He had a heart--a
funny heart. He was a fool. He did not go to Lima. He left the steamer
at Guayaquil and followed her to Quito. She was coming home from Europe
and other places. I do not see what she found in him, but she liked him.
This I know for a fact, else he would not have followed her to Quito.
She asked him to come. Well do I remember the occasion. She said:
“Come to Quito and I will show you the bullfight--brave, clever,
magnificent!”
But he said: “I go to Lima, not Quito. Such is my passage engaged on the
steamer.”
“You travel for pleasure--no?” said Maria Valenzuela; and she looked at
him as only Maria Valenzuela could look, her eyes warm with the promise.
And he came. No; he did not come for the bull-fight. He came because of
what he had seen in her eyes. Women like Maria Valenzuela are born once
in a hundred years. They are of no country and no time. They are what
you call goddesses. Men fall down at their feet. They play with men and
run them through their pretty fingers like sand. Cleopatra was such a
woman they say; and so was Circe. She turned men into swine. Ha! ha! It
is true--no?
It all came about because Maria Valenzuela said:
“You English people are--what shall I say?--savage--no? You prize-fight.
Two men each hit the other with their fists till their eyes are blinded
and their noses are broken. Hideous! And the other men who look on cry
out loudly and are made glad. It is barbarous--no?”
“But they are men,” said John Harned; “and they prize-fight out of
desire. No one makes them prize-fight. They do it because they desire it
more than anything else in the world.”
Maria Valenzuela--there was scorn in her smile as she said: “They kill
each other often--is it not so? I have read it in the papers.”
“But the bull,” said John Harned.
“The bull is killed many times in the bull-fight, and the bull does not
come into the the ring out of desire. It is not fair to the bull. He
is compelled to fight. But the man in the prize-fight--no; he is not
compelled.”
“He is the more brute therefore,” said Maria Valenzuela.
“He is savage. He is primitive. He is animal. He strikes with his paws
like a bear from a cave, and he is ferocious. But the bull-fight--ah!
You have not seen the bullfight--no? The toreador is clever. He must
have skill. He is modern. He is romantic. He is only a man, soft and
tender, and he faces the wild bull in conflict. And he kills with a
sword, a slender sword, with one thrust, so, to the heart of the great
beast. It is delicious. It makes the heart beat to behold--the small
man, the great beast, the wide level sand, the thousands that look on
without breath; the great beast rushes to the attack, the small man
stands like a statue; he does not move, he is unafraid, and in his hand
is the slender sword flashing like silver in the sun; nearer and nearer
rushes the great beast with its sharp horns, the man does not move, and
then--so--the sword flashes, the thrust is made, to the heart, to the
hilt, the bull falls to the sand and is dead, and the man is unhurt. It
is brave. It is magnificent! Ah!--I could love the toreador. But the
man of the prize-fight--he is the brute, the human beast, the savage
primitive, the maniac that receives many blows in his stupid face and
rejoices. Come to Quito and I will show you the brave sport of men, the
toreador and the bull.”
But John Harned did not go to Quito for the bull-fight. He went because
of Maria Valenzuela. He was a large man, more broad of shoulder than
we Ecuadorianos, more tall, more heavy of limb and bone. True, he was
larger of his own race. His eyes were blue, though I have seen them
gray, and, sometimes, like cold steel. His features were large, too--not
delicate like ours, and his jaw was very strong to look at. Also, his
face was smooth-shaven like a priest's. Why should a man feel shame for
the hair on his face? Did not God put it there? Yes, I believe in God--I
am not a pagan like many of you English. God is good. He made me an
Ecuadoriano with ten thousand slaves. And when I die I shall go to God.
Yes, the priests are right.
But John Harned. He was a quiet man. He talked always in a low voice,
and he never moved his hands when he talked. One would have thought his
heart was a piece of ice; yet did he have a streak of warm in his blood,
for he followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito. Also, and for all that he
talked low without moving his hands, he was an animal, as you shall
see--the beast primitive, the stupid, ferocious savage of the long ago
that dressed in wild skins and lived in the caves along with the bears
and wolves.
Luis Cervallos is my friend, the best of Ecuadorianos. He owns three
cacao plantations at Naranjito and Chobo. At Milagro is his big sugar
plantation. He has large haciendas at Ambato and Latacunga, and down
the coast is he interested in oil-wells. Also has he spent much money
in planting rubber along the Guayas. He is modern, like the Yankee; and,
like the Yankee, full of business. He has much money, but it is in many
ventures, and ever he needs more money for new ventures and for the old
ones. He has been everywhere and seen everything. When he was a very
young man he was in the Yankee military academy what you call West
Point. There was trouble. He was made to resign. He does not like
Americans. But he did like Maria Valenzuela, who was of his own country.
Also, he needed her money for his ventures and for his gold mine in
Eastern Ecuador where the painted Indians live. I was his friend. It
was my desire that he should marry Maria Valenzuela. Further, much of my
money had I invested in his ventures, more so in his gold mine which was
very rich but which first required the expense of much money before it
would yield forth its riches. If Luis Cervallos married Maria Valenzuela
I should have more money very immediately.
But John Harned followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito, and it was quickly
clear to us--to Luis Cervallos and me that she looked upon John Harned
with great kindness. It is said that a woman will have her will, but
this is a case not in point, for Maria Valenzuela did not have her
will--at least not with John Harned. Perhaps it would all have happened
as it did, even if Luis Cervallos and I had not sat in the box that day
at the bull-ring in Quito. But this I know: we DID sit in the box that
day. And I shall tell you what happened.
The four of us were in the one box, guests of Luis Cervallos. I was next
to the Presidente's box. On the other side was the box of General Jose
Eliceo Salazar. With him were Joaquin Endara and Urcisino Castillo,
both generals, and Colonel Jacinto Fierro and Captain Baltazar de
Echeverria. Only Luis Cervallos had the position and the influence
to get that box next to the Presidente. I know for a fact that the
Presidente himself expressed the desire to the management that Luis
Cervallos should have that box.
The band finished playing the national hymn of Ecuador. The procession
of the toreadors was over. The Presidente nodded to begin. The bugles
blew, and the bull dashed in--you know the way, excited, bewildered, the
darts in its shoulder burning like fire, itself seeking madly whatever
enemy to destroy. The toreadors hid behind their shelters and waited.
Suddenly they appeared forth, the capadores, five of them, from every
side, their colored capes flinging wide. The bull paused at sight of
such a generosity of enemies, unable in his own mind to know which to
attack. Then advanced one of the capadors alone to meet the bull. The
bull was very angry. With its fore-legs it pawed the sand of the arena
till the dust rose all about it. Then it charged, with lowered head,
straight for the lone capador.
It is always of interest, the first charge of the first bull. After a
time it is natural that one should grow tired, trifle, that the keenness
should lose its edge. But that first charge of the first bull! John
Harned was seeing it for the first time, and he could not escape the
excitement--the sight of the man, armed only with a piece of cloth,
and of the bull rushing upon him across the sand with sharp horns,
widespreading.
“See!” cried Maria Valenzuela. “Is it not superb?”
John Harned nodded, but did not look at her. His eyes were sparkling,
and they were only for the bull-ring. The capador stepped to the side,
with a twirl of the cape eluding the bull and spreading the cape on his
own shoulders.
“What do you think?” asked Maria Venzuela. “Is it not
a--what-you-call--sporting proposition--no?”
“It is certainly,” said John Harned. “It is very clever.”
She clapped her hands with delight. They were little hands. The audience
applauded. The bull turned and came back. Again the capadore eluded him,
throwing the cape on his shoulders, and again the audience applauded.
Three times did this happen. The capadore was very excellent. Then he
retired, and the other capadore played with the bull. After that they
placed the banderillos in the bull, in the shoulders, on each side of
the back-bone, two at a time. Then stepped forward Ordonez, the chief
matador, with the long sword and the scarlet cape. The bugles blew for
the death. He is not so good as Matestini. Still he is good, and with
one thrust he drove the sword to the heart, and the bull doubled his
legs under him and lay down and died. It was a pretty thrust, clean and
sure; and there was much applause, and many of the common people threw
their hats into the ring. Maria Valenzuela clapped her hands with the
rest, and John Harned, whose cold heart was not touched by the event,
looked at her with curiosity.
“You like it?” he asked.
“Always,” she said, still clapping her hands.
“From a little girl,” said Luis Cervallos. “I remember her first fight.
She was four years old. She sat with her mother, and just like now she
clapped her hands. She is a proper Spanish woman.
“You have seen it,” said Maria Valenzuela to John Harned, as they
fastened the mules to the dead bull and dragged it out. “You have seen
the bull-fight and you like it--no? What do you think?
“I think the bull had no chance,” he said. “The bull was doomed from
the first. The issue was not in doubt. Every one knew, before the bull
entered the ring, that it was to die. To be a sporting proposition, the
issue must be in doubt. It was one stupid bull who had never fought
a man against five wise men who had fought many bulls. It would be
possibly a little bit fair if it were one man against one bull.”
“Or one man against five bulls,” said Maria Valenzuela; and we all
laughed, and Luis Ceryallos laughed loudest.
“Yes,” said John Harned, “against five bulls, and the man, like the
bulls, never in the bull ring before--a man like yourself, Senor
Crevallos.”
“Yet we Spanish like the bull-fight,” said Luis Cervallos; and I swear
the devil was whispering then in his ear, telling him to do that which I
shall relate.
“Then must it be a cultivated taste,” John Harned made answer. “We kill
bulls by the thousand every day in Chicago, yet no one cares to pay
admittance to see.”
“That is butchery,” said I; “but this--ah, this is an art. It is
delicate. It is fine. It is rare.”
“Not always,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen clumsy matadors, and I
tell you it is not nice.”
He shuddered, and his face betrayed such what-you-call disgust, that I
knew, then, that the devil was whispering and that he was beginning to
play a part.
“Senor Harned may be right,” said Luis Cervallos. “It may not be fair
to the bull. For is it not known to all of us that for twenty-four hours
the bull is given no water, and that immediately before the fight he is
permitted to drink his fill?”
“And he comes into the ring heavy with water?” said John Harned quickly;
and I saw that his eyes were very gray and very sharp and very cold.
“It is necessary for the sport,” said Luis Cervallos. “Would you have
the bull so strong that he would kill the toreadors?”
“I would that he had a fighting chance,” said John Harned, facing the
ring to see the second bull come in.
It was not a good bull. It was frightened. It ran around the ring in
search of a way to get out. The capadors stepped forth and flared their
capes, but he refused to charge upon them.
“It is a stupid bull,” said Maria Valenzuela.
“I beg pardon,” said John Harned; “but it would seem to me a wise bull.
He knows he must not fight man. See! He smells death there in the ring.”
True. The bull, pausing where the last one had died, was smelling the
wet sand and snorting. Again he ran around the ring, with raised head,
looking at the faces of the thousands that hissed him, that threw
orange-peel at him and called him names. But the smell of blood decided
him, and he charged a capador, so without warning that the man just
escaped. He dropped his cape and dodged into the shelter. The bull
struck the wall of the ring with a crash. And John Harned said, in a
quiet voice, as though he talked to himself:
“I will give one thousand sucres to the lazar-house of Quito if a bull
kills a man this day.”
“You like bulls?” said Maria Valenzuela with a smile.
“I like such men less,” said John Harned. “A toreador is not a brave
man. He surely cannot be a brave man. See, the bull's tongue is already
out. He is tired and he has not yet begun.”
“It is the water,” said Luis Cervallos.
“Yes, it is the water,” said John Harned. “Would it not be safer to
hamstring the bull before he comes on?”
Maria Valenzuela was made angry by this sneer in John Harned's words.
But Luis Cervallos smiled so that only I could see him, and then it
broke upon my mind surely the game he was playing. He and I were to be
banderilleros. The big American bull was there in the box with us. We
were to stick the darts in him till he became angry, and then there
might be no marriage with Maria Valenzuela. It was a good sport. And the
spirit of bull-fighters was in our blood.
The bull was now angry and excited. The capadors had great game with
him. He was very quick, and sometimes he turned with such sharpness
that his hind legs lost their footing and he plowed the sand with his
quarter. But he charged always the flung capes and committed no harm.
“He has no chance,” said John Harned. “He is fighting wind.”
“He thinks the cape is his enemy,” explained Maria Valenzuela. “See how
cleverly the capador deceives him.”
“It is his nature to be deceived,” said John Harned. “Wherefore he is
doomed to fight wind. The toreadors know it, you know it, I know it--we
all know from the first that he will fight wind. He only does not know
it. It is his stupid beast-nature. He has no chance.”
“It is very simple,” said Luis Cervallos. “The bull shuts his eyes when
he charges. Therefore--”
“The man steps, out of the way and the bull rushes by,” Harned
interrupted.
“Yes,” said Luis Cervallos; “that is it. The bull shuts his eyes, and
the man knows it.”
“But cows do not shut their eyes,” said John Harned. “I know a cow at
home that is a Jersey and gives milk, that would whip the whole gang of
them.”
“But the toreadors do not fight cows,” said I.
“They are afraid to fight cows,” said John Harned.
“Yes,” said Luis Cervallos, “they are afraid to fight cows. There would
be no sport in killing toreadors.”
“There would be some sport,” said John Harned, “if a toreador were
killed once in a while. When I become an old man, and mayhap a cripple,
and should I need to make a living and be unable to do hard work,
then would I become a bull-fighter. It is a light vocation for elderly
gentlemen and pensioners.”
“But see!” said Maria Valenzuela, as the bull charged bravely and the
capador eluded it with a fling of his cape. “It requires skill so to
avoid the beast.”
“True,” said John Harned. “But believe me, it requires a thousand times
more skill to avoid the many and quick punches of a prize-fighter who
keeps his eyes open and strikes with intelligence. Furthermore, this
bull does not want to fight. Behold, he runs away.”
It was not a good bull, for again it ran around the ring, seeking to
find a way out.
“Yet these bulls are sometimes the most dangerous,” said Luis Cervallos.
“It can never be known what they will do next. They are wise. They are
half cow. The bull-fighters never like them.--See! He has turned!”
Once again, baffled and made angry by the walls of the ring that would
not let him out, the bull was attacking his enemies valiantly.
“His tongue is hanging out,” said John Harned. “First, they fill him
with water. Then they tire him out, one man and then another, persuading
him to exhaust himself by fighting wind. While some tire him, others
rest. But the bull they never let rest. Afterward, when he is quite
tired and no longer quick, the matador sticks the sword into him.”
The time had now come for the banderillos. Three times one of the
fighters endeavored to place the darts, and three times did he fail.
He but stung the bull and maddened it. The banderillos must go in, you
know, two at a time, into the shoulders, on each side the backbone and
close to it. If but one be placed, it is a failure. The crowd hissed and
called for Ordonez. And then Ordonez did a great thing. Four times
he stood forth, and four times, at the first attempt, he stuck in the
banderillos, so that eight of them, well placed, stood out of the back
of the bull at one time. The crowd went mad, and a rain of hats and
money fell on the sand of the ring.
And just then the bull charged unexpectedly one of the capadors. The man
slipped and lost his head. The bull caught him--fortunately, between his
wide horns. And while the audience watched, breathless and silent, John
Harned stood up and yelled with gladness. Alone, in that hush of all of
us, John Harned yelled. And he yelled for the bull. As you see yourself,
John Harned wanted the man killed. His was a brutal heart. This bad
conduct made those angry that sat in the box of General Salazar, and
they cried out against John Harned. And Urcisino Castillo told him to
his face that he was a dog of a Gringo and other things. Only it was
in Spanish, and John Harned did not understand. He stood and yelled,
perhaps for the time of ten seconds, when the bull was enticed into
charging the other capadors and the man arose unhurt.
“The bull has no chance,” John Harned said with sadness as he sat down.
“The man was uninjured. They fooled the bull away from him.” Then he
turned to Maria Valenzuela and said: “I beg your pardon. I was excited.”
She smiled and in reproof tapped his arm with her fan.
“It is your first bull-fight,” she said. “After you have seen more you
will not cry for the death of the man. You Americans, you see, are more
brutal than we. It is because of your prize-fighting. We come only to
see the bull killed.”
“But I would the bull had some chance,” he answered. “Doubtless, in
time, I shall cease to be annoyed by the men who take advantage of the
bull.”
The bugles blew for the death of the bull. Ordonez stood forth with the
sword and the scarlet cloth. But the bull had changed again, and did not
want to fight. Ordonez stamped his foot in the sand, and cried out, and
waved the scarlet cloth. Then the bull charged, but without heart. There
was no weight to the charge. It was a poor thrust. The sword struck
a bone and bent. Ordonez took a fresh sword. The bull, again stung to
fight, charged once more. Five times Ordonez essayed the thrust, and
each time the sword went but part way in or struck bone. The sixth time,
the sword went in to the hilt. But it was a bad thrust. The sword missed
the heart and stuck out half a yard through the ribs on the opposite
side. The audience hissed the matador. I glanced at John Harned. He sat
silent, without movement; but I could see his teeth were set, and his
hands were clenched tight on the railing of the box.
All fight was now out of the bull, and, though it was no vital thrust,
he trotted lamely what of the sword that stuck through him, in one side
and out the other. He ran away from the matador and the capadors, and
circled the edge of the ring, looking up at the many faces.
“He is saying: 'For God's sake let me out of this; I don't want to
fight,'” said John Harned.
That was all. He said no more, but sat and watched, though sometimes
he looked sideways at Maria Valenzuela to see how she took it. She was
angry with the matador. He was awkward, and she had desired a clever
exhibition.
The bull was now very tired, and weak from loss of blood, though far
from dying. He walked slowly around the wall of the ring, seeking a
way out. He would not charge. He had had enough. But he must be killed.
There is a place, in the neck of a bull behind the horns, where the
cord of the spine is unprotected and where a short stab will immediately
kill. Ordonez stepped in front of the bull and lowered his scarlet cloth
to the ground. The bull would not charge. He stood still and smelled the
cloth, lowering his head to do so. Ordonez stabbed between the horns at
the spot in the neck. The bull jerked his head up. The stab had missed.
Then the bull watched the sword. When Ordonez moved the cloth on the
ground, the bull forgot the sword and lowered his head to smell the
cloth. Again Ordonez stabbed, and again he failed. He tried many times.
It was stupid. And John Harned said nothing. At last a stab went home,
and the bull fell to the sand, dead immediately, and the mules were made
fast and he was dragged out.
“The Gringos say it is a cruel sport--no?” said Luis Cervallos. “That it
is not humane. That it is bad for the bull. No?”
“No,” said John Harned. “The bull does not count for much. It is bad for
those that look on. It is degrading to those that look on. It teaches
them to delight in animal suffering. It is cowardly for five men to
fight one stupid bull. Therefore those that look on learn to be cowards.
The bull dies, but those that look on live and the lesson is learned.
The bravery of men is not nourished by scenes of cowardice.”
Maria Valenzuela said nothing. Neither did she look at him. But she
heard every word and her cheeks were white with anger. She looked out
across the ring and fanned herself, but I saw that her hand trembled.
Nor did John Harned look at her. He went on as though she were not
there. He, too, was angry, coldly angry.
“It is the cowardly sport of a cowardly people,” he said.
“Ah,” said Luis Cervallos softly, “you think you understand us.”
“I understand now the Spanish Inquisition,” said John Harned. “It must
have been more delightful than bull-fighting.”
Luis Cervallos smiled but said nothing. He glanced at Maria Valenzuela,
and knew that the bull-fight in the box was won. Never would she have
further to do with the Gringo who spoke such words. But neither Luis
Cervallos nor I was prepared for the outcome of the day. I fear we do
not understand the Gringos. How were we to know that John Harned, who
was so coldly angry, should go suddenly mad! But mad he did go, as you
shall see. The bull did not count for much--he said so himself. Then why
should the horse count for so much? That I cannot understand. The mind
of John Harned lacked logic. That is the only explanation.
“It is not usual to have horses in the bull-ring at Quito,” said Luis
Cervallos, looking up from the program. “In Spain they always have them.
But to-day, by special permission we shall have them. When the next bull
comes on there will be horses and picadors-you know, the men who carry
lances and ride the horses.”
“The bull is doomed from the first,” said John Harned. “Are the horses
then likewise doomed!”
“They are blindfolded so that they may not see the bull,” said Luis
Cervallos. “I have seen many horses killed. It is a brave sight.”
“I have seen the bull slaughtered,” said John Harned “I will now see the
horse slaughtered, so that I may understand more fully the fine points
of this noble sport.”
“They are old horses,” said Luis Cervallos, “that are not good for
anything else.”
“I see,” said John Harned.
The third bull came on, and soon against it were both capadors and
picadors. One picador took his stand directly below us. I agree, it was
a thin and aged horse he rode, a bag of bones covered with mangy hide.
“It is a marvel that the poor brute can hold up the weight of the
rider,” said John Harned. “And now that the horse fights the bull, what
weapons has it?”
“The horse does not fight the bull,” said Luis Cervallos.
“Oh,” said John Harned, “then is the horse there to be gored? That must
be why it is blindfolded, so that it shall not see the bull coming to
gore it.”
“Not quite so,” said I. “The lance of the picador is to keep the bull
from goring the horse.”
“Then are horses rarely gored?” asked John Harned.
“No,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen, at Seville, eighteen horses
killed in one day, and the people clamored for more horses.”
“Were they blindfolded like this horse?” asked John Harned.
“Yes,” said Luis Cervallos.
After that we talked no more, but watched the fight. And John Harned was
going mad all the time, and we did not know. The bull refused to charge
the horse. And the horse stood still, and because it could not see it
did not know that the capadors were trying to make the bull charge upon
it. The capadors teased the bull their capes, and when it charged them
they ran toward the horse and into their shelters. At last the bull was
angry, and it saw the horse before it.
“The horse does not know, the horse does not know,” John Harned
whispered to himself, unaware that he voiced his thought aloud.
The bull charged, and of course the horse knew nothing till the picador
failed and the horse found himself impaled on the bull's horns from
beneath. The bull was magnificently strong. The sight of its strength
was splendid to see. It lifted the horse clear into the air; and as the
horse fell to its side on on the ground the picador landed on his feet
and escaped, while the capadors lured the bull away. The horse was
emptied of its essential organs. Yet did it rise to its feet screaming.
It was the scream of the horse that did it, that made John Harned
completely mad; for he, too, started to rise to his feet, I heard
him curse low and deep. He never took his eyes from the horse, which,
screaming, strove to run, but fell down instead and rolled on its back
so that all its four legs were kicking in the air. Then the bull charged
it and gored it again and again until it was dead.
John Harned was now on his feet. His eyes were no longer cold like
steel. They were blue flames. He looked at Maria Valenzuela, and she
looked at him, and in his face was a great loathing. The moment of his
madness was upon him. Everybody was looking, now that the horse was
dead; and John Harned was a large man and easy to be seen.
“Sit down,” said Luis Cervallos, “or you will make a fool of yourself.”
John Harned replied nothing. He struck out his fist. He smote Luis
Cervallos in the face so that he fell like a dead man across the chairs
and did not rise again. He saw nothing of what followed. But I saw much.
Urcisino Castillo, leaning forward from the next box, with his cane
struck John Harned full across the face. And John Harned smote him with
his fist so that in falling he overthrew General Salazar. John Harned
was now in what-you-call Berserker rage--no? The beast primitive in him
was loose and roaring--the beast primitive of the holes and caves of the
long ago.
“You came for a bull-fight,” I heard him say, “And by God I'll show you
a man-fight!”
It was a fight. The soldiers guarding the Presidente's box leaped
across, but from one of them he took a rifle and beat them on their
heads with it. From the other box Colonel Jacinto Fierro was shooting at
him with a revolver. The first shot killed a soldier. This I know for
a fact. I saw it. But the second shot struck John Harned in the side.
Whereupon he swore, and with a lunge drove the bayonet of his rifle into
Colonel Jacinto Fierro's body. It was horrible to behold. The Americans
and the English are a brutal race. They sneer at our bull-fighting, yet
do they delight in the shedding of blood. More men were killed that day
because of John Harned than were ever killed in all the history of the
bull-ring of Quito, yes, and of Guayaquil and all Ecuador.
It was the scream of the horse that did it, yet why did not John Harned
go mad when the bull was killed? A beast is a beast, be it bull or
horse. John Harned was mad. There is no other explanation. He was
blood-mad, a beast himself. I leave it to your judgment. Which is
worse--the goring of the horse by the bull, or the goring of Colonel
Jacinto Fierro by the bayonet in the hands of John Harned! And John
Harned gored others with that bayonet. He was full of devils. He fought
with many bullets in him, and he was hard to kill. And Maria Valenzuela
was a brave woman. Unlike the other women, she did not cry out nor
faint. She sat still in her box, gazing out across the bull-ring. Her
face was white and she fanned herself, but she never looked around.
From all sides came the soldiers and officers and the common people
bravely to subdue the mad Gringo. It is true--the cry went up from
the crowd to kill all the Gringos. It is an old cry in Latin-American
countries, what of the dislike for the Gringos and their uncouth ways.
It is true, the cry went up. But the brave Ecuadorianos killed only
John Harned, and first he killed seven of them. Besides, there were many
hurt. I have seen many bull-fights, but never have I seen anything so
abominable as the scene in the boxes when the fight was over. It was
like a field of battle. The dead lay around everywhere, while the
wounded sobbed and groaned and some of them died. One man, whom John
Harned had thrust through the belly with the bayonet, clutched at
himself with both his hands and screamed. I tell you for a fact it was
more terrible than the screaming of a thousand horses.
No, Maria Valenzuela did not marry Luis Cervallos. I am sorry for that.
He was my friend, and much of my money was invested in his ventures. It
was five weeks before the surgeons took the bandages from his face. And
there is a scar there to this day, on the cheek, under the eye. Yet
John Harned struck him but once and struck him only with his naked
fist. Maria Valenzuela is in Austria now. It is said she is to marry an
Arch-Duke or some high nobleman. I do not know. I think she liked John
Harned before he followed her to Quito to see the bull-fight. But why
the horse? That is what I desire to know. Why should he watch the bull
and say that it did not count, and then go immediately and most horribly
mad because a horse screamed? There is no understanding the Gringos.
They are barbarians.