“Blame me if’e bean’t a ferret!” remarked the shooter as he picked his victim up. And following that brief oration came the obsequies of Hob, who was flung into a convenient ditch.
THE FIGHTING BULL
When the fighting bulls come in at sunset, led from the lush pastures by the belled bullocks that have been their lifelong companions, one animal walks alone in the rear of the herd. He is of more than common size and splendidly armed, if one may use the bull-fighter’s term in speaking of his horns, but his is a gentle nature, and even the ganadero’s daughter, little Golisa, who has no more than ten summers to her credit, may bring him a handful of corn without fear. He is nine years old, and has many peaceful seasons before him, for he is El Perdonado.
Never heard of him, you say? That must be because you don’t know Andalusia. I saw the historic fight of which he was the hero; heard the greatest diestro in Spain make an appeal to the President that El Cuchillo, as he was then called, might be pardoned for bravery. And I saw the Spanish grandee, one of whose ancestors was immortalised by Velazquez, bare his head and pronounce the verdict of acquittal that is not heard once in five years in the plaza de toros. So El Perdonado (The Pardoned One) is by way of being an acquaintance of mine, and I have ridden for miles across country to see him browsing peacefully on the grass lands beyond Utrera, where he was born and bred. Now I will try to set his history before you, that you may know something more of fighting bulls than the plaza de toros can teach. The most of what I have to tell I have seen for myself, but for some of the more intimate details I am indebted to El Conecito, most expert of Andalusian banderilleros, with whom I used to chat over horchatas in the café of the Emperadores that is on the Sierpes of Seville. He will never see this acknowledgement of his help, for he slipped in the plaza de toros at Valencia during the corrida in honour of the feast of the Santissima Trinidad, slipped on a purple patch that had not been properly covered with sand, and died as he had lived—quite fearlessly.
El Perdonado was born on a Utrera bull-farm, in one of those restful districts that delight the traveller between Seville and the sea. The alqueria had whitewashed walls and a red roof, from which a belfry rose; it lay amid rich pastures. There were pools shaded with willows, and avenues of poplars that stood like sentinels against the sky-line, and over all the country-side brooded the spirit of deep and abiding peace. The young bull’s mother was of the notorious Miura herd of the Duke of Veragua, “the herd of death,” famous for their prowess throughout the arenas of Spain, and known by the red divisa that they carry into the ring. His sire was from a northern province, and not so well known to fame, but highly esteemed by the aficionados, the men who study the science of the bull-ring.
As soon as the calf was weaned he was turned out on to the rich lands that are watered by one of the tributaries of the Guadalquivir, and there he passed his days, eating lazily or standing in one of the pools to keep cool. He and his fellows were placed in the charge of a ganadero, who rode tirelessly across the meadows throughout the day, watching that his charges came to no harm and guiding or correcting them as he thought fit with a long pole. The young bulls were as hard to manage as a pack of foxhounds. They had every sort of temper among them; they were vicious, crafty, daring and sulky in turn, but they had one quality in common, and that was terror of the master’s pole. For Miguel, the ganadero, could knock a troublesome bull calf head over heels with his formidable weapon; he could ride like a vaquero of the pampas and turn a score of animals together in any direction he desired. Yet for all that he was fierce and pitiless, Miguel was the slave of any animal that fell sick, and never a racehorse received better attention in time of trouble.
Our friend gave little or no anxiety to the ganadero, and there was nothing in his behaviour during the first two years of his life that might outline his character, until the day when the proprietor of the farm rode down to the pastures with a company of friends and expert professionals to test the novillos, as the young bulls were then called. Each bull in turn was separated from the herd and charged by a stranger on horseback who was armed with such a pole as Miguel used.
Some of the animals would not face the charge at all, but fled in terror from it—to be driven into a fenced pasture and become mere butcher’s meat in the fulness of time. Others realised that their enemy was not Miguel, and charged him with fury. These were acclaimed by their owner, named on the spot, and entered in the stud-book as fighting-bulls. None of the novillos made so fierce a charge as the subject of this story, and because of the strength, shape and sharpness of his horns, he was entered in the records as El Cuchillo (The Knife). Among the bulls tested were some not quite of the first class in development and horn growth, though they were not lacking in courage and strength. These were sent away to provincial bull-rings, where they served, in corridas de novillos, to give practice to matadors of the second class, and to satisfy the blood-thirst of men and women who could not afford the time or money to visit the large arenas.
For El Cuchillo and the chosen companions of his year, life took a new and agreeable form when the first test had been withstood. They were kept by themselves in the lowest and richest meadows, where the grass came to their flanks and the water never failed. In the evening the tame bullocks that carried cow-bells round their necks came to fetch them home, and when they reached their stalls there was always a measure of fine corn for supper. So they increased in strength and natural ferocity until only Miguel dared face them, and he relied chiefly upon his old reputation. It is more than likely that he would have fared ill in a contest with the least of them now; but, as he carried the familiar pole, was a stranger to fear, and never allowed an order to be disobeyed, his rule was not seriously challenged. He called each bull by its name as though he were the huntsman and his charges were a pack of hounds.