Betsy lifted her head but did not meet her mother’s eyes. “Ramon has a cape. He used it against a bull in the corral.”
“Ramon? Who is Ramon?” Mrs. Crowley stood again.
Betsy knew she had slipped. “The boy I saw.”
“And how old is this boy?”
“I don’t know—about my age.”
Kathleen Crowley’s handsome face hardened. “So, that’s why you went riding.”
“Mother...” Betsy trembled a bit.
“You stay away from there.” Her voice rose. “Bullfighting is cruel. Some bulls even fight grizzly bears for sport.”
“I didn’t know.” Betsy flushed and tears welled in her blue eyes. She ran upstairs.
* * *
Ramon left the Mission School early on a cloudy day. He walked through the colorful Mission gardens on his way home, listened to the chirping birds.
“Ramon.” His name came from behind a green hedge.
He stopped. “Who is it?”
Betsy stuck out her hand. “This way, by the poppy bed.”
“Betsy, what are you doing here?”
She walked toward him. “I wanted to see you—to talk.”
Ramon’s face brightened. “I am glad.”
“I don’t know if you will be. Mother was home when I finished riding the other day. I told her I saw you at the rancho.”
“But, she does not even know me.”
A slight breeze blew a strand of hair across her face. “She knows the rancho trains bulls to fight.”
“Yes, we have champion bulls.”
Betsy brushed the wisp of hair back. “She hates bullfighting. It’s savage.”
“Yes, it is savage...” He paused. “But there is great honor in being a matador. My father and his father was a matador.”
Her face twisted. “It seems so cruel. The poor bull doesn’t have a chance.”
“The Spanish bull is a majestic animal.” Ramon spread his feet. “Such agility—such strength. My father has been gored many times. He almost lost a leg. It is up to the matador to display his courage – his skill to fight the bull with honor.”
“But in the end, he kills the bull.”
“Most of the time, but with grace and quickness. Sometimes the bull is spared, if he performs extra brave.”
Betsy watched his eyes light up, his face brighten. Maybe her mother was right. “Mother says some bulls even fight grizzly bears—another savage practice. Why?”
“Your mother should know why.” Ramon raised his shoulders. “The grizzly kills your father’s cattle. They are dreaded enemies. Those fights have gone on for years.”
“She says it’s only for money and sport.”
Ramon expanded his small chest. “It takes master lazadores to capture the grizzly—some men have been killed or maimed. Just last week, my father’s arm was almost ripped off by a bear.”
“You mean you captured a grizzly?”
“I helped.”
“Is your father all right?”
“He has a lot of pain.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He will get well.” Ramon made the sign of the cross.
“Where is the bear?”
“Chained in the arena. The fights usually take place on holy days—again, for honor.”
“I thought holy days were to honor the Saints.” She lowered her eyes. “You should go to church and pray.”
“We do that before the fight.” He stared at her, enchanted by the animation on her face when she raised her voice.
“What if they wanted your bull to fight the grizzly?”
“My Toro is on the range. They would not take him.”
Betsy drew back, took a big breath. She felt his dark piercing eyes, looked up and locked on them. Her face reddened. “We seem to be arguing.”
“Yes, but you are so pretty.” Like a reflex, the words just came out.
She blushed. “Thank you.”
Ramon moved closer, placed a hand on her cheek. Her skin felt soft, smooth. He stroked her cheek, kept staring into her blue eyes. “I... I...” He stopped and put his lips on hers.
They pressed together, just long enough to feel the rush through their bodies.
Ramon backed off. “I am sorry.” He looked at the ground, shifted his feet.
Betsy fussed with her hair, patted her cheeks. “I must be going.” His boldness surprised, intrigued her.
“We will meet here every day.” He touched her arm. “Even for a few moments.”
“I’ll try.” She turned and ran out of the garden.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ramon and Betsy met regularly under the blood-red bougainvilleas in the Mission gardens. He could hardly wait each day for school to let out. His schoolwork improved and every day Sister Sarah noticed his constant smile.
Ramon looked forward to each meeting with overwhelming anticipation. Simple events blossomed within him into momentous occasions. They held hands and kissed until the pulsing that ran through their bodies told them to let go. Ramon had never known such love. He had loved his mother and father and even Toro, but his feelings for Betsy were much different.
Sometimes Ramon told her stories about the Ahachmai Indians, descendants from Shoshone stock, and early settlers in San Juan Capistrano.
“Indian boys drank jimsonweed and hallucinated about bears, rattlesnakes, and ravens,” he said, “then they were blistered with fire, whipped with nettles, and laid on ant hills.”
“Oooooh...” Betsy shuddered. “Why did they do that?”
Ramon stumbled for an answer. “...It was part of becoming a man... and they were not allowed to eat meat or seeds.”
Betsy wrinkled up her face. “And how did girls become women?”
“They were laid on branches in earthen pits lined with heated stones.” Ramon talked with his hands, spreading his arms apart like he was putting them into the pits. “Then they had to fast, and women with painted faces danced around the pits. Sometimes the girls got tattooed.”
Betsy pulled back. “I wouldn’t like that.”
“I would not either.” He placed his arm around her shoulders. “I like this.”
Betsy snuggled close to him. “Me, too.”
Smiles spread across their faces and they hugged. Ramon wanted to kiss her and turned his head toward her.
“So!” The voice jumped out from behind a hedge. “This is where you run off to!”
Betsy pulled away from Ramon. “Mother!” She touched her cheeks, felt the warm flush as they turned red.
“Just what are you doing here, young lady?” Kathleen Crowley stood before them, hands on her hips.
“Ramon and I were just talking.” Betsy avoided her mother’s eyes.
Ramon stood. “Buenos Tardes, Mrs. Crowley.”
She ignored him, motioned to Betsy. “Come, you’re coming with me.”
Betsy rose slowly.
Mrs. Crowley grabbed Betsy’s arm. “We’re going home.”
Ramon’s jaw tightened. He wrung his hands. Betsy turned, saw his torn face as her mother hurried her away.
“Turn around, young lady,” Mrs. Crowley said. “You are never to see that boy again—he’s not our kind.”
“But, Mother...”
“Enough!”
Ramon watched them leave the gardens. When they were out of sight, he sighed. For a long while, he stood in the same spot staring after her as if he could still see her pleading eyes. When he felt moisture in his eyes, he jammed his hands into his pockets and slowly headed for home.
* * *
Ed Crowley walked into his spacious ranch house, removed his hat, and set it on a hall table. His wife waited for him in the lavish office.
“Kathleen,” Mr. Crowley said, “how was your day?”
“Not so good.” She rose. “I caught Betsy with that Mexican boy from the bullfighting rancho.”
“You did, where?”
“At the mission. They were sitting on a bench—close.”
“You mean close together? Doing what?”
She looked away. “I think they were hugging.”
“Are you sure?”
“Betsy said they were just talking.”
He moved toward his desk. “That’s all? Betsy has never lied to us.”
“Well, she’s changed. I told her not to see that boy.”
“So, what shall we do?”
She turned, looked at him. “I want you to call in your mortgage on that rancho.”
“You mean repossess Ortega’s hacienda?”
“Yes, we must stop the savage bullfighting.”
Ed Crowley looked closely at his wife. Her face showed the same determination as her voice. He hesitated a moment, then sat at the desk. “I’ll ride over in the morning. Do you want me to talk to Betsy?”
“No, I’ve already taken care of that. She’s in her room.”
“As you wish, dear. If the rancho goes, the boy goes.”
A smile crossed her lips. “I know.”
The next morning, Ed Crowley rode through the front gate of Rancho Ortega. He reined up at the main house, tied his horse to a hitching post.
Señor Ortega walked onto the veranda from the front door. “Ah, Señor Crowley. Buenos Dias, and to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Crowley shook hands with Ortega. “Good morning, Señor, I’m afraid it’s not pleasure—its business.”
Señor Ortega’s face lost its smile. “I know the last few payments are behind, but I will have some money for you before long.”
Crowley eyed Ortega, saw the hopeful look in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Señor, something serious has come up. I will require all the back mortgage money by the end of the month or you will lose the rancho.”
Ortega’s mouth dropped. “But, Señor Crowley, how can I do that?”
“That’s your problem, Señor. I’ve made my decision.” He turned and walked down the steps to his horse.
Señor Ortega watched him ride off, then slowly walked into the house.
Luis Montiel knocked on the office door with his left hand. His right arm was still in a sling. “You sent for me, Señor?”
“Come in, Luis.” Ortega glanced up from his desk. “Please sit down.”
Luis sat in a modest chair. “You look serious.”
“I have made a firm decision. If I do not come up with a large amount of money now, I will lose the rancho.”
Luis sat straight in the chair. “Then I will lose also. What is your decision?”
“The quickest way to make money is to pit the grizzly against one of our bulls. Much betting will bring even more money.”
“We have not had such a fight yet this year.”
“Now we must,” Ortega said. “This grizzly killed our prize cattle and almost killed you.”
Luis touched his bandaged arm. “We will need three bulls, to wear the grizzly down—as tradition states.”
“No, we will use one bull only. When the Madrid and Mexico rings learn our bull defeated the largest, meanest bear of all time, they will buy our stock.”
“And when will the fight take place?”
“Saint Valentine’s Day is soon—a special holy day.”
Luis twisted on the chair. “We must pick a bull.”
“There is only one bull—Toro.”
Luis’s eyes widened. “Ramon’s Toro?”
“Yes.”
Luis leaned forward. “There must be some other bull.”
“No.” Señor Ortega’s fist hit the desktop. “Toro is the one.”
“Ramon will not allow it.” Luis stood.
“He has no choice.”
Luis studied Ortega’s eyes for a moment. “Yes, Señor.” He turned and walked out of the office.
CHAPTER SIX
Late the same afternoon, Ramon walked past Señor Ortega’s office. The door was open.
Ortega rose from his desk and poked his head out the door. “Oh, Ramon, would you step in here, please?”
Ramon turned. “Yes, Padrone.”
Ortega stood in front of the desk, motioned Ramon to sit in a chair.
“What is it, Señor?”
“Ramon, my boy, because a great need has arisen, I am putting on a fight.”
“A bullfight?”
“More than that. Your Toro must fight the grizzly.”
Ramon’s mouth opened; his eyes grew large. “Not Toro, he has been on the range all winter. The grizzly will destroy him. No, not Toro.”
“Toro is our best bull.”
Tears rained down Ramon’s face. “Please, Señor, do not take Toro. Where is Papa? He will make you understand.”
“The bear almost killed your father. I am sorry, Ramon.”
“Toro will not stand a chance.”
Ortega put a hand on Ramon’s shoulder. “It is tradition.”
“No, no, no.” Ramon broke away, ran out the door.
Ramon opened the door to his father’s room. His bandaged right arm rested on his chest outside the covers. Ramon sat and watched his father for several minutes. Every so often he wiggled the blankets, hoping his father would awaken.
Ramon could wait no longer. “Papa, Papa.” He shook his father’s leg.
Luis stirred, opened his eyes. “Ramon...”
“Toro must fight the grizzly!” His face twisted in pain. Luis wiped his eyes. “What? Who told you?”
“The Señor—please stop him.” Ramon put his head on the bed. “Toro will be killed.”
Luis pushed up against his pillow. “Toro is the strongest, most extraordinary bull I have ever seen. He is from a long line of champion Spanish bulls.”
“But Papa, he does not know how to fight.” He clutched the covers in his hands. “I thought you wanted Toro for our own rancho.”
“I do, but Toro was bred to fight in the ring. I fought bulls like him, but not as good, in Spain and Mexico.”
Ramon raised his head. “Toro is mine. Don’t you remember Papa, three years ago, the night I found him in the flooded arroyo.”
“I remember. A grizzly killed his parents.”
“You got angry with me. You said the grizzly might still be around. All I knew was that the calf needed help.”
Luis patted his son’s head. “You were brave. Our prize bull and finest cow were killed. The Señor was very angry.”
“But he gave me the calf and I nursed him, played with him, protected him, until he was strong enough to be on his own.”
“I knew Toro was something special,” Luis said, “when I saw him stand his ground against bigger and older bulls on the range.”
Ramon buried his head in the covers. “Now Señor Ortega wants Toro to fight the grizzly. He said it was tradition.”
“It is tradition,” Luis said, “but the Padrone is under much pressure too. He owes money to Mr. Crowley just like I owe money to him for our rancho. Now, with my arm and my bad leg, how can I work here and work our rancho also? If the arm gets infected, I may lose it.”
Ramon hugged Luis. “Don’t say that, Papa. You will get well. Nothing can happen to you.”
“Luis will be fine.” Señor Ortega walked into the room. “And much money will be won on the fight.”
Luis looked up. “Must it be Toro?”
“He is the best.”
“Yes, but he is also the one who will reproduce our line of champion bulls.”
Ramon stood. “Señor, you gave Toro to me. He is my pet.”
“Let me make this clear, Ramon,” Ortega said. “The grizzly has killed many cows and some bulls. Once, we had the largest herd. Lately, we have not sent many bulls to the ring. My creditor breathes down my neck. He wants to take back my rancho and the prime land I sold your father.”
“Papa will get well. He will pay you for the land. Toro will bring big stud fees.”
Señor Ortega looked out the window. “I cannot wait that long.” He turned back to Ramon. “Toro was bred for one thing and one thing only—to fight in the ring.”
“But
, not against a grizzly.” Ramon stomped his foot.
“Ramon,” Luis said, “show respect.”
“Yes, Papa, but...”
Luis put his left hand on Ramon’s arm. “I have killed many bulls. You must understand this. The glory of bullfighting for the matador is to fight bravely. To fight and die in the ring is honor and glory for the bull.”
Ramon’s twisted face whirled from his father to Señor Ortega. “No, no, not Toro. How can I save my Toro? He will die either way.”
“I am sorry.” Señor Ortega walked out the door.
Ramon kneeled by the bed, dropped his head, and pounded his fists on the covers.
“Ramon, you must be brave,” Luis said. “Go play now. I must rest, get my strength back.”
Ramon looked at the pain in his father’s eyes and backed out the door with his head bent.
Señor Ortega sat at his desk in the office. Late afternoon sun shone through an open window. He thumbed through a stack of bills and sighed. His near-empty cash box lay open in a bottom drawer of the desk. A knock at the door interrupted his concentration. “Come in.”
Two vaqueros entered.
“Ah, Pedro, Juan.”
“Padrone.”
“Luis’s arm is still bad,” Ortega said. “We cannot wait for it to heal before we bring in the herd.”
“The bulls will be wild after grazing all winter,” Pedro said.
“Specially Ramon’s Toro,” Juan said.
“Yes, Toro,” Señor Ortega said, “be very careful with him. He means much money to our hacienda.”
“It will take many men to corral Toro,” Pedro said.
“Take as many men as you need. Just get him in here.”
Ramon stood outside the office. He winced when he heard what the men inside said. He could not let them hurt his Toro. He would hide the bull where they could not find him.
The vaqueros approached the doorway. Ramon spun around, ran through the kitchen out the back door. He saddled his pinto and rode toward the open range.
Early the next morning, Pedro, Juan, and the other vaqueros picked their lances off the wall in the equipment shed and rode out to the range at the base of the mountains.
The Bear and the Bull Page 3
