The Bear and the Bull

by Harvey Mendez

  Señor Ortega, taken aback by Ramon’s outburst, put a finger under his chin and pondered the situation. Then he pushed away from the table. “My decision stands.”

  Luis looked at Señor Ortega. “He will settle down. All he knows is that Toro is like a pet dog, not a fighting bull.”

  Ortega’s eyes narrowed. “We will see...”

  * * *

  Ramon walked home from school with his head down. He had always smiled when he thought of Betsy. Now, he could not see her and the Padrone really meant to take Toro from him. Agony spread across his face.

  The afternoon sun rained down hot. Ramon hurried to the corral. He hoped no one would see him.

  Toro, standing by the water trough, looked up, saw Ramon approach, and trotted over to him.

  “Toro.” Ramon patted the bull’s head.

  Toro nudged his nose into Ramon’s chest.

  Ramon wrapped his arms around the bull’s neck. “I knew you would still love me.” He tightened his squeeze.

  Toro wagged his tail like a dog and stood still.

  Ramon held on, laid his head on Toro’s head. Why did Betsy’s mother hate him so? Did she have something to do with Señor Ortega’s decision to have the fight? Would he ever see Betsy again? His head swirled. He was sure Betsy liked him. He must be in love with her. He felt the heartache but would not cry, a matador would not cry. But the sadness would not leave his face. He removed his arms from Toro’s neck. “Work, Toro—we will work. I will forget the ache.”

  Toro pawed the ground, dropped his head, snorted, and sprayed dust.

  “You do know.” Ramon clapped his hands together. “We fight.” He pulled off his shirt, used it as a cape.

  The rest of the hot afternoon Ramon and Toro faced each other as torero and bull. After much prodding, the challenges became fast, fierce, and tiring.

  Dust covered Ramon. Toro’s tongue hung out. Ramon’s sweat flew off him in big droplets. Finally, he called the fight to a stop. He wiped a heavy arm across his wet forehead. Now, he was streaked with mud. “Enough, Toro, we need water. Hard work makes a good cure to disappointment.”

  Toro’s head swayed back and forth. He trotted to the trough and stuck his mouth into it. Ramon pumped a tin cup full of water, drank it, and put away his shirt. “Tonight, Toro—I will come back tonight.”

  The bull raised his head, stared at the young boy, his friend.

  Ramon’s father sat on his bed when Ramon walked into the room. “How did it go, Ramon?”

  Ramon did not smile but his face brightened a bit. “Toro worked today—somehow he knew.”

  “Knew what?” Luis asked.

  “He knew I was in no mood to play.”

  “Why?”

  Ramon looked away. “I thought it was time.”

  “Is that the only reason?” Luis knew his son.

  “What other reason?”

  Luis stood. “I have watched you since you met Betsy Crowley. She is a pretty young girl. Your face tells how you feel about her.”

  Ramon blushed. Was it that evident? How did his face look now? He tried to change the grimness he displayed.

  “What happened?” Luis squared his shoulders.

  Ramon looked past his father. “Her mother said she could no longer see me. We were at the Mission. She does not like my kind, our kind—bullfighters—Mexicans.” He shifted back and forth, felt the sweat on his hands.

  Luis’s face softened. “My son, as you grow older you will become aware of many prejudices and disappointments. We must hold our heads above it.”

  “I am learning, Papa, but I do like Betsy very much.”

  “Do not quit, but you must respect Mrs. Crowley’s wishes.”

  “At least I still have Toro.”

  Luis bowed his head. “Yes, you have Toro, but...”

  “But what, Papa?” His father had always faced him. Why did he turn away now?

  Luis did not look up. “The Padrone will not change his mind about the fight.”

  After supper that night, Ramon ran to the equipment shed next to the corral. He opened the chest of matador capes and stared at the bright colors for a few moments. He knew what near-sighted bulls needed to provoke them. Practicing against young bulls on the range and in the pens was fun. Now, the fun was over. He picked a lance off the wall and walked to the corral.

  The white-horned bull stood pawing the loose earth as if he knew what Ramon was up to. Ramon opened the gate and strode toward Toro. He raised the wooden lance, jabbed at the bull like a picador. Toro just stood still in the center of the corral. Ramon, directly in front of his bull, waved the magenta-colored cape in a perfect Veronica move. Toro, quick and strong from the range, still did not charge.

  Ramon stomped his foot, fluttered the cape again. “Ay—Toro!”

  The bull shook his head from side to side. Ramon jabbed him again with the lance. Toro dipped his head, snorted, but made only a token charge at the cape. Ramon sidestepped by moving the cape like an expert torero and slapped the black brute across the rump with his lance. Toro turned his head, watched the boy kick the dirt with his boots.

  “Toro, this is not a game—charge me—like this afternoon.”

  Again and again, Ramon prodded the bull, but to no avail. Exhausted, he sat down and held his head in his hands. Toro, tongue protruding, wagged his tail and nudged his huge nose into Ramon’s shoulder.

  “Toro, Toro.” He hugged the bull’s head. “We will take a break. The day of the fight will be hot. You must drink plenty of water so your tongue will not hang out when you are tired and thirsty. A matador would know you are near the end. A bear would rip out your tongue.”

  In the main house, Luis finished his meal and lit his after-supper cigar. He took a few puffs before turning his chair away from the table. The other household members who had not left the room stood around the long table.

  Luis looked over the guests. “Ramon, Ramon... where is he?”

  Señor Ortega scanned the room. “I have not seen him since we started supper.”

  Luis stood. “I think I know where he is. Goodnight, Señor.” He walked into the warm night.

  At the corral, Luis saw Ramon standing beside Toro. Resting his chin on his fists on a fence railing, Luis watched the bull nudge his head into Ramon’s chest every time the boy tried to pull back. “Ramon, it is time to come in now.”

  Ramon looked away from the bull. “Please, Papa, just a little longer. Tonight, Toro only plays—he will not fight. He needs much more work.”

  “Shortly, then, I think your task is close to impossible.” Luis turned from the corral. “He will never fight the bear. It would be more noble to keep him as a stud.”

  Ramon heard the sounds but did not hear his father’s words.

  A full moon rose in the clear sky. Ramon and his bull continued playing the fight. The young matador became more furious each time Toro would not charge him full force. Over and over, Ramon provoked the bull but Toro toyed with him like it was a game. Frustrated, Ramon threw his lance and cape down, rushed the bull. “The grizzly will kill you! You must understand!”

  The bull did not move. Hesitating a moment, Ramon wrapped his weary arms around Toro’s neck, squeezed hard, and laid his head close to Toro’s horns. “He will kill you. He will kill you.” His voice was little more than a whisper.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tired, thirsty, and covered with corral dust, Ramon wiped his dry mouth with the back of his hand but just ate more dust. Moving away from the bull, he spit on the ground and pulled off his dirty shirt. He walked to the water tank and splashed cool water over his head and face until his thick, black hair shone in the moonlight. Toro rubbed his nose gently against Ramon’s back. Refreshed, Ramon turned and flicked a handful of water in Toro’s face. The bull blinked, stood calmly beside him.

  “All right, Toro.” Ramon shook his shirt, put it back on. “Back to work.” He swatted the bull’s back with his hand.

  The two friends battled each other again
. Ramon working; Toro playing. Ramon poked the bull with his lance, moved the cape in a graceful Gaonera. Toro dropped his head, started to charge but eased up. Over and over, the same thing happened.

  “Toro, fight me! Fight me!” Ramon wiped sweat off his forehead. He stood in front of the powerful bull, shook the cape. “You must charge—for honor—for survival.”

  Toro pawed the ground but stood in place. Ramon dropped his weary arms to his sides and shook his head. He threw down the lance and cape, walked toward the gate. Turning, he looked at the moon, then stared at the bull. Toro stood in the center of the pen, feet spread, watching his young master.

  “Rest, Toro, rest.” Ramon opened the gate.

  In his room, Ramon lay restlessly on his bed. Toro, so gentle—the grizzly, so brutal. Toro will be killed....

  The early-summer sky was blue like precious stones the day nine-year-old Ramon and Consuelo Montiel, his mother, hiked to the foothills to pick wild raspberries. Baskets in hand, they walked off the main trail into the thicket. After probing through the undergrowth for some time, they finally found the berry bushes.

  “Ramon,” his mother said, “you pick here at the lower bushes, I will gather the higher berries.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Ramon set his basket on the ground, squashed a raspberry in his fingers. He licked the red juice.

  “Gently, my son, just pull them off.” She picked a berry, dropped it into his basket.

  Ramon pulled on the berries carefully and put them into his basket. Every now and then he popped one into his mouth.

  Soon, his mother’s basket was full; she set it beside her son. “Here, I will help you.” She picked with both hands.

  “I am hungry,” Ramon said.

  “Hurry, fill your basket—then we will have the lunch I packed.”

  Ramon’s face brightened. He looked at his mother. “I love you, Mama.”

  After lunch, Ramon and his mother walked down to the small stream running from the hills. Ramon took off his shoes, waded in the water. His mother washed her hands and arms, splashed the cool water on her smooth, graceful face.

  “I will play right here, Mama.” Ramon rolled up his leggings a little higher.

  Mrs. Montiel stooped to pick up the two baskets when she heard a branch crack. She turned toward the sound. A grizzly bear charged out of the underbrush and slashed its huge claws across her arms. Baskets and berries crashed to the ground.

  “Ayeeeeeee!” Her scream was high-pitched. Blood splattered on nearby bushes.

  The bear mauled her to the dirt, muffling her remaining cries. Blood spurted from her head when the grizzly cuffed her to a limp death.

  At the stream, Ramon heard her scream. “Oh, no—mama!” He leaped out of the water, ran toward the sounds.

  The grizzly’s growls shook the afternoon’s stillness. Ramon flew through the brush, cutting his arms and face on sharp thorns. When he reached the small clearing, the bear was eating berries, shoving his mother’s battered body back and forth. Ramon picked up a rock, hurled it at the grizzly. The bear looked at the boy, roared through its berry-colored mouth. Ramon threw more rocks, hit the bear on the shoulders and on the head. The grizzly rose on its hind legs, growled again. Ramon held his ground until the bear thundered at him. He darted into the thicket, circled behind the giant beast.

  Picking up the largest rock he saw, Ramon hurled it at the back of the bear’s head. The rock bounced off the bear’s fur onto the ground. The grizzly whirled around, charged Ramon before he could run. Towering over the boy, the bear, forelegs outstretched, poised for the attack. Ramon had covered his head and face, cowered under a bush . . . .

  Ramon jerked up from his bed; sweat poured off his startled face onto the sheets. “Mama—Mama!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The night before, four young boys had watched from the shadows outside the corral. In the pen, lighted by moonlight, Ramon prodded the large bull, urged him to charge. Toro pulled up from his half-hearted charge and nudged his nose into Ramon’s shoulder.

  “Fight me! Fight me!” Ramon threw down his lance and cape, walked toward the gate.

  Toro stood alone in the center of the corral. Ramon vanished into the darkness.

  Roberto, the oldest boy, looked through the fence slats. “Toro is no fighting bull.”

  “But he was wild when the vaqueros brought him in,” another boy said.

  Roberto stood from his crouch. “Ramon is not a matador. He does not know how to prepare the bull for glory.”

  “Is death the glory?” José, the youngest boy, asked.

  Roberto turned. “Yes, death is the only honor for a bull. Look, Toro just stands there.”

  “We will soon be matadors,” another boy said. “Fight Toro.”

  “Good idea,” Roberto said. “I will get some lances from the shed. One for everybody except José.”

  José moved close to the corral fence, stared at Toro. “I am not afraid.”

  “You are too little,” Roberto said.

  José put his leg on the fence, started to lift up.

  “No.” Roberto pulled him off the fence. “You can watch us, but stay out of the way.”

  “Come on, let’s do it now.” The boys headed for the equipment shed.

  “Stop,” Roberto said, “it is too late. We will get up early in the morning. Nobody will hear us then.”

  Dew still covered the ground a few hours later when the boys, spiked lances in hand, returned to the corral. Toro stood near the far side.

  Roberto jumped over the fence. “I will go first.”

  The other older boys followed. José sat on the top railing.

  “You stay there, José,” Roberto said.

  José nodded. “But I can fight.”

  “Just stay out of the way.” Roberto turned back to the bull, shook his cape. “Ehe, Toro!”

  Toro looked up but did not move.

  “Ehe, Toro!”

  The bull still did not move.

  Roberto waved an arm at the other boys. “You are the picadores. Jab your lances into his neck. We will make him charge.”

  The boys ran to the fence behind Toro, climbed up and stabbed their sharp lances into the bull’s neck. Toro jerked away. The boys chased him. Roberto waved his cape, stepped toward the wild-eyed bull.

  “Ehe, Toro!”

  Toro saw the boy now. The bull pawed the ground, arched his back, and dipped his head. The boys behind the bull poked him with the lances, drew blood. Roberto taunted Toro with the cape. The bull charged. Roberto spun around, knocked down José who had run up behind him.

  “Where did . . . ?” Roberto leaped over José and ran for the fence.

  Toro, charging full steam, thundered over José and rammed his horns into the fence. The other boys hopped the fence, ran behind Roberto around the barn. José lay still in the dirt. Toro snorted, began trotting back and forth.

  Ramon gasped for breath. His chest heaved; his heart thumped like a charging locomotive. He gripped his head with shaky hands and stared at the wall next to his bed. His dead mother in a pool of blood . . . the snarling grizzly towering above, ready to kill again.

  Screams punctuated the morning air outside Ramon’s room. He went to the window. A group of workers ran toward the corral. Ramon threw on his clothes and dashed out the door.

  A crowd gathered at the corral. Some stood on the fence; some watched through the slats.

  “Look! Look!”

  Ramon hopped on the fence. In the center of the corral, Toro trotted back and forth near the body of a young boy.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” Men shouted and raised their fists.

  “The bull has trampled the boy.” Women wailed and wept.

  Angry men jumped into the pen, then dove out when the bull charged them.

  “Get the rifles! He is a killer!”

  “No, no!” Ramon leaped off the fence, darted toward the nervous bull. “Toro—Toro, what have you done?”

  The small boy’s body lay still,
in a heap, covered with blood. Ramon slowed, kept his eyes on Toro until he stood over the body. The bull stopped trotting and slowly backed away. Ramon bent, took hold of the boy’s arms, and dragged him toward the gate. Two men opened the gate and picked up the boy.

  Ramon turned back to the bull and walked cautiously toward him. Blood ran down the bull’s neck and shoulders.

  “Toro—you are hurt.” Ramon ran to the bull, wiped his hands across the cuts.

  The bull dipped his head and pawed the dirt.

  Ramon lifted his hands off the wounds, patted the bull’s back. “Easy, boy, easy.” He scratched the skin under Toro’s large head, like he would a cat’s. Always before Toro would stand and tolerate the petting. This time, the bull backed away from Ramon, snorted, sprayed the dirt under him.

  Two lances lay by the fence. Ramon picked them up, examined the sharp, bloody metal tips. He turned to Toro. “This is why you hurt José.”

  “Ramon, what has happened?” Luis stood with one foot on the bottom rail and gazed over the fence.

  “Papa, Toro was stuck with these lances. He trampled little José. He might be dead.” Ramon walked to the fence.

  “I have seen the boy. The doctor is with him now. Pray he will not die.”

  “They want to kill Toro. But it was not his fault. I am sure some of the older boys were behind it. Sometimes they make fun of me at school because I love my Toro. All they talk about is being matadors and killing the bulls.”

  Luis saw the anguish in Ramon’s eyes. “It is tradition, my son. I, too, wanted to become a matador when I was a small boy. And I want you to be the greatest matador de toros of all time.”

  “But Papa, if I became a matador, how could I look into Toro’s eyes and then plunge the sword between his shoulder blades into his heart?” Ramon gripped the lances until they shook.

  “It would not be Toro you would fight.”

  “Oh, Papa, everybody will want Toro killed now because he hurt José. Or even killed him. Poor Toro; he has no chance.”