The matador in the meantime strutted proudly in front of the seats with hands up, smiling and bowing for compliments that were not showered upon him.
Two negro menials went behind the dying bull to put on the finishing touches. The bull lifted up his head and turned it toward them, but not with his former half-defiant, half-playful expression. It was an expression of half alarm and half entreaty, and said as plainly, and much more forcibly, than words could have done, “Why did you hurt me? Don’t come at me again. I’m sick. I did nothing to any of you.” And he lowered his head again, and laid it down on the ground, resigned to die, caring no longer what they did.
“Asesinado,” cried the crowd. (Assassinated.)
“Asesinado,” re-echoed in every breast.
“Dé nos nuestra plata, Señor Alcalde, dé nos nuestra plata.” (Give us our money.)
One of the menials got behind the prostrate bull’s head and began sticking a narrow dagger into the back of his neck, trying to find and sever the spinal cord. After three or four stabs the object was accomplished, for the bull’s body relaxed with sudden paralysis. Thereupon the negro cut the paralyzed animal’s throat wide open, and blood poured out as from a street hydrant. His limbs twitched a little and he relaxed in death—and no one seemed to enjoy it. It was much less satisfactory than a packing-house exhibition.
Then they brought in two little mules in traces, hooked a rope around the dead animal’s horns and tried to drag him out. The mules started and dragged him to the center of the arena, with his nose digging deep into the dirt so as to impede their progress. At the center the mules stopped and gave up the task, upon which two negroes got in front and pulled at their heads, while another negro whipped them vigorously from behind. They started up, took a few more steps forward and gave it up again.
“Whip the front mules,” cried one of the gods, referring to the negroes who were pulling the mules—and the gods laughed.
Finally, by pulling and pushing, the negroes succeeded in getting the dead bull out, one taking hold of the tail and bending it over its back to pull with.
Only one bull had been killed and our desire for gore was supposed to be incomplete. Our expectations were not realized. As no horses were to be gored we did not get much for our money, and had a right to see another bull killed as per program. In Spain a man rides a blindfolded horse in front of the bull and prods him in the forehead, until he disembowels the horse. So another animal was admitted, undoubtedly one of the first ones who had fought. He looked like “El Anarquista” and acted like him, for he could not be made to show fight—he had learned that there was nothing in it for him except a title that was not worth dying for. Hence he was ignominiously driven back, like a tame bossie cow.