To Panama and back

by Henry T. Byford

“No sirve, no sirve,” shouted the gods. “Dé nos nuestra plata.” (Give us our money.)

The alcalde smiled, gave the usual signal and “El Bisturi” was driven back to his fodder.

A fifth bugle-call and out came “El Relampago” (The Lightning). He kicked at the clouds, shook off the darts, charged the cloaks, then stopped and shook his horns at them, and after having had his little sport, stood still and wondered what it was all about anyway. They teased him, but he lost interest in the game, although by means of head shakes, bluffs and short charges he chased two men behind the screens.

One of the banderilleros wished to show off and tried to practice a trick of the trade. When the bull made a short charge at his cloak the trickster jerked up the cloak and whirled around so as to present his unprotected back to the horns of the bull. He should have waited until the bull had completed his charge at the cloak and he would have been safe, but he chose the time badly and “El Relampago ran into him. But, the cloak having disappeared, the bull raised his head and merely hit the fellow inadvertently on the shoulders with his nose, instead of the other place with his horns, and thus raised a laugh instead of lifting the man. “El Relampago” was a humorist and a bluffer; but there was no sting to his satire. He was apparently more afraid of injuring what he considered to be one of his masters, than the banderillero was of being hurt by him. He might, instead of stopping like a horse caught by the bridle, have lowered his powerful head again and given the fellow a boost to a warmer place than Panama.

“No sirve. Otro, otro,” cried the crowd. (No good. Another, another.)

But “El Relampago” was the last of the supply of gladiatorial beef, so the alcalde signaled to have it killed.

“Es un asesinado. No lo asesinar.” (It’s an assassination. Do not assassinate him), yelled the crowd. They wanted blood, but they wanted fighting blood, not slaughter-house gore.

But the smiling matador stood before the box of the alcalde with both hands raised to receive the official nod. The alcalde nodded, partly from drowsiness, whereupon the matador turned and danced off quickly, like a martinette, toward the door and received his sword.

The sword was a beautiful one, long and slender, and so bright that it was only visible in the restless hand of the bull-fighter by its flashing. He ran nimbly toward his victim, flourishing the weapon gracefully and ostentatiously, and began confusing the tired, ill-conditioned and unsuspecting bull by swinging a cloak before his eyes. The bull did not move, except slightly with his head as he was being hypnotized. Suddenly there was a flash, and the man stabbed the animal who had been so anxious not to injure him. The deed was done so quickly that Doctor Echeverría, whose sympathies were probably slowing down his mental action, did not see it done.

The bull stood still for a moment, then turned and ran to the center of the arena and, as it happened, faced the alcalde who had ordered his death, and was thus doing his best. He stopped still, lowered his head, began to breathe heavily and lolled out his tongue. He showed great distress and was evidently bleeding internally. He stood that way for a few moments, then walked to the corner near his pen and slowly lay down with his head drooping until his nose nearly touched the ground. He evidently did not understand how this trouble and suffering had come to him.