by John Benteen
And yet, Fargo would not give up. While his heart beat, while life coursed through his veins, there was always hope. Only the dead were without hope ... Sometimes, for the living, miracles happened. It was the dead who were past the benefit of miracles. And he would, of course, stay alive as long as possible, cherish every second of life remaining, and never cease to seek a way out.
Then the high wooden gates of the tienta ring loomed before him. Beyond it was a huge corral, in which the black fighting cattle, brought in from the range, were unhappily penned, slamming against the tough quebracho poles, which would not give, almost as hard as iron themselves. Their bellowing and lowing filled the air, but above it rose a deeper, more spine-chilling sound from directly behind the ring: a deeper bellow that had in it something like the clang of a great, bronze cathedral bell. It came, Fargo knew, from the throat of El Diablo Negro. And it chilled his blood, sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.
At the sound, von Stahl laughed. “Your nemesis. And Carla’s, if Don Caesar does not speak in time. Put him in the ring, Jorge. We’ll watch from the seats above.” And he pointed to the row of seats built atop the wall, near the gate.
Jorge opened the great wooden doors. “In with you,” he said, prodding Fargo with the shotgun.
The others went around to climb up to the seats. Fargo moved through the gate, found himself in a ring, not much smaller than a real plaza de toros, floored with sand, encircled by a barrera, a low wooden wall set off from the mud one, behind which men could find shelter, the entrances into the ring from it shielded by the burladeros, barricades of wood before the gaps in the barrera.
Beyond, on the opposite side, was the toril gate through which the bull would come. It shook and trembled with the weight the enraged animal threw against it.
Behind Fargo, the entrance gates swung shut, and he heard a bar clicking into place. Protected by the barrera, von Stahl and Carla and Don Caesar and the gauchos had seated themselves in a kind of bleacher section. The girl’s face was a white blot of fear; Don Caesar’s countenance was a senseless blob, eyes dull and dead, von Stahl’s handsome face was split with a cruel, anticipatory grin.
“Hombre,” Jorge said, smiling coldly, terribly, and pointing the shotgun at Fargo, “now you will see what it means to gunwhip a compadrito.”
He backed away, keeping the shotgun leveled. Fargo was alone in the ring. Jorge eased toward the toril gate. “If you try to hide behind the barrera or the burladero,” Jorge called, “I’ll flush you out with buckshot.” Now he was very near the gate, which shuddered and trembled as the Black Devil threw his weight against it.
Fargo’s hands had been unloosed; now he began to unbutton his shirt. He stripped it off, shook it out, and wished that it were four times as large and more brightly colored; but it was khaki. A poor substitute for a capote, but it was the only cape he had. His mind went back to Juarez, nearly twenty years ago, remembering a paunchy, slow, and yet very brave matador, and something stiffened within him. He knew the passes; he knew the science; if he died on the bull’s horns, it would not be because he lacked courage.
Then Jorge was at the gate. He looked up at von Stahl, and the German raised his cavalry saber in a gesture. Jorge unbarred the gate, sprang back behind a burladero. And the bull they called the Black Devil charged into the ring.
Chapter Eight
Only in darkness had he seen this animal before. Now, as El Diablo Negro burst into the ring, Fargo stood motionless, the shirt dangling from his hands, staring at this great engine of destruction, this killing machine, in full light.
The bull was huge, black as crude oil and as shiny. He came in head down, tail up, black-tipped horns shaking and hooking and trotted in a half-circle for a few yards, then halted. As he looked around the ring with shortsighted eyes, the thick crest of his neck, the hump of his back, rippled and bulged with pure muscle. He was like a creature out of a nightmare, and, alone with him in this small enclosure, and weaponless against those sword-pointed horns, Fargo felt a thrill of fear, strong and unashamed.
The Black Devil pranced back and forth, tossing his head, testing the air with slime-dripping nostrils. He pawed the ground with his forefoot, rumbled a deep war cry in his chest. He had still not seen Fargo, but. ... The bull froze. Now he had caught the scent of the man across the ring. Slowly, cautiously, the Black Devil turned. From thirty yards away, he faced Fargo and let his head drop again.
Still Fargo did not move. At this distance, he knew, he was nothing more than a blur in the bull’s nearsighted eyes. When the animal charged, it would be motion that provoked it. His only chance was to let the shirt provide that motion, catch the animal’s attention. Maybe, when it charged the shirt, he could pass it by him.
If, coming up, it did not see him, too, and change the direction of its attack. Perhaps it was sentido, like the great Miura bulls of Spain; they had a reputation for ignoring the cape, concentrating on the man. Or, perhaps, as it hit the shirt, it would hook sideways and rip him open.
Fargo bit his lip, summoning all remembered knowledge of the ring and of bulls. Before a real matador confronted such an animal, the bull would have been prepared. Assistants would have challenged it with the cape, so the master bullfighter could appraise its speed, its characteristics, which way it hooked with those terrible horns. Picadores on horseback would have weakened that great neck with stabs of the pica, the spear, and brought the head down; well-placed banderillas in the hump of muscle would have brought the head down lower. Angered and hurt, the bull would, nevertheless, have lost its edge of strength, its unpredictable freshness.
But he had no help. He was alone with the Black Devil, and unless some miracle occurred, this animal would, sooner or later, kill him. All he could do was postpone his death to the last second... and hope.
Then El Diablo Negro snorted and trotted nearer. Ten yards away, now, he halted, and his head dropped and he began to throw the sand of the ring up over his black shoulders with gouges of his big, splayed hoof. The rumbling in his chest grew louder. Fargo’s hands gripped the shirt tightly, in the position for handling a cape. Any second, now, the bull would come—and it must be at the cloth, not him.
Feet planted, he raised the shirt, moved it, cited the bull, drawing its attention to the flapping khaki garment. “Eje! Eje! Toro!” he snapped. He flapped the shirt harder.
Then, suddenly, and with express train speed, the bull charged.
It took all of Fargo’s courage to stand motionless, every bit of concentration focused on that onrushing black half-a-ton of destruction. He held the shirt well out, kept it in motion—and hoped.
The earth literally trembled with the pounding of the hooves. Now it was enormous, head as large as a barrel, horns black-tipped, lethal. Fargo still stood planted; then he thought: Now! and he shifted weight and, at the last moment, swirled the shirt in a makeshift veronica, and the bull passed by his body, the left horn missing his gut by no more than a hand’s span. The shirt slipped over the horns as the momentum of the animal’s charge carried it ten yards past; Fargo was already turning as the Black Devil skidded to a halt, reared and whirled.
Again Fargo held out the shirt, challenged the bull. The Black Devil stood motionless for a second, then charged again. As it came, Fargo was vaguely aware that every gaucho on the place must have gathered to see the show; they sat atop the wall like roosting crows and all were shouting. Above their racket rang a woman’s scream of terror.
The bull hit the shirt, hooked toward Fargo as he did. Fargo whirled away, light-footed, and the horn grazed his bare torso without breaking the skin. El Diablo rushed past, turned full-tilt, without slowing, came back again. Fargo got the shirt in place just in time, stepped out of the line of vision of the animal, held the flapping cloth in it. Again the bull ripped past, and this time it ran all the way to the ring’s far side, brought up hard against the wooden barrera. It sheered off, turned, froze for a moment more, trying to figure out precisely what sort of opponent it
was up against, staring with weak eyes at what must have been only a strange shimmer in the center of the ring.
Sweat poured down Fargo’s torso. He could feel the pounding of his own heart as he waited; his mouth was bone-dry.
The Black Devil pawed earth once more. Then he bellowed loudly, his bramido, his war cry, and came again, faster than ever.
But this time, Fargo realized, he was not pointed at the shirt. Those black horns were aimed straight for his belly.
He dared not turn and run, even if there had been time. He flapped the shirt wildly; it did not divert El Diablo Negro. Then the bull was on him. Fargo whirled slightly, seized one horn with his right hand and, bracing himself, all his weight, on it, jumped. A toss of the bull’s head added impetus to the maneuver; Fargo went whirling off balance across the ring. But at least he was still alive, ungutted.
The bull charged on, into the barrera again, crashing hard against the wood, splintering it with its horns. It caromed off dazedly, turned, and now its flanks were heaving. It had enormous vitality, energy, and Fargo was not deceived, as he regained his balance, straightened up and got the right grip once more on the shirt. A little winded, yes; but it had plenty of strength left with which to kill him.
Once more he tried to cite the bull with the cloth. The animal stared, rumbled, shook its head. It came again; this time the flapping sleeves caught its attention; when it hit the shirt, it hooked frantically, skidding to a halt. Fargo jerked back and ran, and the shirt ripped as it came free of the horns. The bull turned, a little more slowly, now, its flanks pumping harder. Fargo shifted position; he was too close to the burladero, the protective wooden shield near the toril gate, behind which Jorge had taken cover. If the bull came at him while he was in this part of the ring’s terrain, he would be penned, trapped. He stepped aside. As he did so, a hand shot out from behind the burladero, seized the shirt, jerked.
It came out of Fargo’s grip. He twisted his head, staring; Jorge was grinning at him over the shotgun barrel, the shirt clutched in his fist.
“From now on, hombre, you do it the hard way!”
There was no time to speak, even; the bull was coming again, the earth shaking, Diablo’s galloping hooves drumming. Fargo waited until the last possible second; then, when it seemed that the horn-spears would pin him to the wall, he whirled away. But the bull was fast, too; and just as he cleared its horns, it flung its head, in a ferocious backward motion. Its right horn did not go into Fargo; but it clubbed him, with terrific force. He went spinning across the ring, landed on his back in the sand. The bull whirled, came at him. There was no time for Fargo to rise. Throughout all this, the old cavalry hat had stayed clamped on his head. As El Diablo Negro came thundering down on him, horns lowered to skewer, then toss, Fargo whipped off the hat. Rolling, he desperately slapped the bull across the eyes with it. The Black Devil bawled, and his horn thrust missed by inches. That gave Fargo just time to get to his feet in the center of the ring, as the bull rushed past and turned.
Fargo stood there, unarmed save for the cavalry hat, and waited. El Diablo Negro paused, winded now, and pawed the earth. Fargo’s own wind, strength, were gone. One more pass, he thought hopelessly; he might survive one more. Then he was finished; the bull would have him.
He raised the hat, held it out. El Diablo bellowed and came after him.
The hat was not enough. Fargo dodged, slapping at the black bull’s face again, but the animal would not be diverted. And Fargo was a shade slow. The horns caught him. By some miracle, they did not rip him; he fell behind the tips. But the huge animal tossed its mighty head, and all the power of its great neck sent Fargo flying. He rose high in the air, losing the hat, came down with sense-stunning impact in the sand. He heard Carla scream again.
Time seemed to freeze, then. For a second everything halted; he was acutely aware of the sun, the sky, the sand, the men on the fence, the terrified girl, the great bull, knowing it had him, ten yards away pawing earth once more, shaking its horns, preparing itself for the final charge.
Then, before Fargo could rise, it came.
And at the same split second, as every human fell silent, another sound shattered the sunlit morning.
The stallion’s fighting scream was like a trumpet blast. Then, for Fargo, everything was a blur.
The bull was charging; men were yelling. That trumpeting neigh came again, close at hand. The black sharp horns were almost on him; he scrambled away. Then he saw the horse’s legs, steel-colored, the flinty hooves, almost over him. He bounded to his feet just before being trampled. There was a dull thud, a bellow from the bull. Fargo stared, frozen, for a clock tick, as horse and bull collided. Cimarron had leaped the six-foot wall of the ring, sent men scattering, landed running. Now his chest slammed full against the point of the Black Devil’s shoulder—twelve hundred pounds of horse against a thousand of bull. The impact knocked El Diablo off his feet, sent him rolling on his flank. Cimarron sheered away, reared, whirled, reared again, and huge, rock-hard forefeet came down with terrific force as the black bull tried to scramble up.
Fargo did not wait to see the result. Another figure was in the ring, now, swam into his line of vision—Jorge, holding the double-barreled shotgun one-handed, lined on Cimarron. For a moment, all the compadrito’s attention was focused on the stallion. His scabbed face was twisted with rage. Fargo, like a bull himself, put down his head and charged.
Jorge saw him coming from the corner of his eyes, but too late. Even as he whirled, shifting aim, Fargo hit him low, under the gun, arms locked around his thighs. Jorge went over, and one barrel of the gun fired straight up. It was the last trigger Jorge ever pulled. Fargo’s scrabbling hand found the knife in his belt, yanked it loose. It came down hard, twisted in flesh, and Jorge screamed. Then Fargo wrenched away the shotgun, lurched to his feet. Suddenly there was gunfire from the top of the wall, von Stahl’s voice screaming orders. Bullets plunked into the ground around him.
Fargo ran, bent low. Lead sliced the ridge of muscle across his left shoulder. Cimarron screamed again, a blast of triumph. The bull was down, the horse rearing over it again. A stirrup flew; reins dangled. Fargo seized the reins, caught the stirrup. As Cimarron’s forefeet slammed into the bull again, Fargo hit the saddle. The stallion bucked, kicked, as a bullet chopped the fleshy part of its rump; then he’d whirled it, kicked it with boots still spurred. The stallion seemed to rise like a bird as it pounded toward the wall. Fargo had a glimpse of gauchos up there, aiming guns, their eyes wide, mouths open, as that huge horse made straight for them. Then he lined the shotgun, fired the remaining charge. Men went down, and Cimarron was flying, clearing the wall in a mighty leap, landing catlike. A man appeared before him, raising a pistol; Fargo clubbed the shotgun, brought it down hard as the horse overran the gaucho. He heard bone give beneath the butt; the man fell beneath the stallion’s hooves.
Then he was in the open, in the clear, but he needed guns, ammo. His weapons were in the estancia main house. If he could make that, get more ammo for the shotgun ... It never once occurred to him to ride out, unarmed, let the stallion carry him away, leaving Carla, Hierro, Braga behind at von Stahl’s mercy. All he wanted was something in his hands to shoot and bullets for it. He whirled Cimarron toward the casa, with lead sleeting all around him, and the big horse turned on a dime. Men were shouting; the sound of guns was thunderous; another fifty yards of open space to cross, and it would be a miracle if a slug did not catch him or the stallion in that short distance.
And then, suddenly, the gunfire dwindled; the shouting changed its quality, and Fargo heard in it a note of fear; and now there was another sound, too, rising above the voices of the gauchos—the enraged bellowing of the black cattle; the thunder of hooves. Fargo made the veranda of the house, swung down in a running leap. The place should be deserted, nothing between himself and his guns and ammo. As he reached the door, he turned; then he halted for a second, staring at the spectacle unfolding out there around the tienta ring.
&
nbsp; Someone had thrown down the bars of the corral behind it. Through the gate vomited a tide of great black cattle, infuriated and aroused by the sound of gunfire, the noise of the bullfight; even as Fargo watched, the bulls and cows fanned out in a stampeding charge; and the men who had been running across the open, shooting at Fargo as they went, changed direction, headed for cover instead. Fargo saw one caught by a bull, tossed high, landing like a rag doll. His gun went flying; the animal stood above him, ravaging his corpse with its horns.
Then there was no more time to lose; the release of the black cattle was a miracle, but he could ponder that later. He ran into the house, turned right from the main sala into the office, made for the corner where his weapons had been piled.
And halted, cursing.
They were gone.
Almost at once, he knew what had happened. Some gaucho had taken advantage of the confusion of the bullfight to sneak in here, make off with Colt and knife and Winchester and Braga’s Mauser and all the ammunition. Unable to resist the opportunity of coming by all those weapons, he must have been willing to brave von Stahl’s wrath to get them, probably had already hidden them somewhere.
Fargo wasted no time in regrets. There had to be other arms around here somewhere. Still holding the shotgun, he whirled. Maybe there was another pistol in von Stahl’s desk. He ran to it, jerked open the drawers, searched them frantically.
Then a voice from the doorway said, coldly: “Don’t waste your time, Herr Fargo. The guns are upstairs in my bedroom, safely locked away.”
And Fargo stood erect and turned; and von Stahl was in the doorway, a Luger in one hand, trained on him, the cavalry saber in the other.
The German’s face was a mask of sweat and dust; his white teeth and blue eyes glittered in it. “All right,” he said. “You escaped the bull. You killed Jorge. Truly you seem to have a charmed life. But I do not think the charm will work against a Luger bullet. I am tired of you, Fargo. You have too much luck.”
