"Don't be a fool, Quartel," the woman told him.
"You'll kill yourself. One mistake with that rope around your neck and you'll be dead."
That was the final impetus. "Hijo de la chingada," shouted Quartel, whirling his trigueño away from them. "How many bulls you got in that corral, Aforismo? Seven? Get me three more. Get me three more from that holding pen across the arroyo. I'll show you what roping really is, Merida. You're going to see a performance tonight you'll never forget!"
[Chapter Eight]
Best Roper in the World
The throng about the large cedar-post corral was oddly subdued. Some of the vaqueros had dragged the blue bull over to the cooking fire for Jacinto to spit, but the gross cook had left the carcass lying on the ground. He stood with the middle bar of the fence making a deep indentation in the incredible protuberance of his stomach as the crowding vaqueros pressed in from behind.
"Madre de Dios, Crawford, why do you let him do this thing?" wailed the cook, running his fat hands nervously up and down the rail. "I don't want to see a man die."
"Then why watch?" said Crawford.
"Please, Crawford, you take such a brutal attitude. Don't you know this is the way Oro Peso died down in Mexico? He was the greatest roper in the world, Quartel's boasting to the contrary. Oro Peso used to go around making this same bet. Then somebody took him up on it. The third bull pulled him from his horse. His neck was broken like you'd snap a switch of mesquite. Please—"