"I ought to drag you for your presumption," said Quartel, shifting his horse forward so he could get enough slack in his rope to flirt it off Indita as the man rose. Then, pulling the rawhide clothesline in with a series of quick, skillful snaps, he turned the trigueño to prance it over toward them, grinning at Merida. "How do you like that, señorita?"
"I have seen it done before," said Merida.
Quartel's face darkened. "You don't think I am any good?"
"I didn't say that."
"Listen," he shouted, thumping his chest, "I am the best goddam roper in the world. I am the best goddam rider in the world. I am—"
"Don't be a boor," said Huerta, in faint disgust.
"A what?" Quartel wheeled the horse around in a growing rage, the sweat greasing his coarse face. "I'll show you." He started pounding his chest again. "I'll show you who's good. I'll make you a bet. I'll bet you a talega full of gold pesos that I can, blindfolded, with one end of the reata tied to my own neck and not to be touched by my hands, riding a bareback horse of your own choosing, forefoot each of any ten bulls we got in a pen, and break their necks."
Huerta shrugged, smiling in a faint, vague dismissal. Quartel reined the trigueño in closer. "I mean it," he bellowed. "Are you afraid to make the bet? Could anybody where you come from do it?"
"Frankly, I don't think anyone can do it," said Huerta, disinterestedly.
"I can," yelled Quartel. "I'm the best—"