The Red-Blooded Heroes of the Frontier Part 22

His equal had never been seen in a Mexican bull ring. While typical of his Utreran brothers, all princes of bovine fighting stock, this coal-black monster was by the spectators voted their King. Relatively light of quarters and shallow of flank and barrel, he was unusually high and humped of withers, broad and deep of chest and heavy of shoulders--indeed a well-nigh perfect four-legged type of a finely trained two-legged athlete, with a pair of peculiarly straight-upstanding horns that were long and almost as sharp as rapiers. Evidently by his build, he was of a strong strain of East Indian Brahminic blood. For his great weight, his activity was phenomenal--his leaps like a panther's, his turns as quick.

Dazed for an instant by the crash of the music and the brilliant banks of color about him, he stood angrily las.h.i.+ng his tail and pawing up the sand in clouds--"digging a grave," as Texas cowboys used to call it--his eyes blazing and head tossing, but only for a moment. Then he charged the nearest _picador_, literally leaped so high at him that head and cruel horns crossed above the horse's neck, his own great chest striking the horse just behind the shoulder with such force that man and mount hit the ground stunned and helpless.

Barely were they down when he was upon them and with a single twitch of his mighty neck, had ripped open the horse's barrel and half amputated one of the rider's legs. Then, diverted by the _capadores_, he whirled upon the second _picador_ and in another ten seconds had left his horse dead and the rider badly trampled. Next the _banderilleros_ tackled him, but such was his speed and ferocity that all three funked the work, and not one of them fastened his flag in the black shoulders.

When the bull had entered the ring, _El Tigre_ left the arena--a most unusual proceeding. Now he returned, clad in snow-white from head to foot, a white cap covering head and hair, his face heavily powdered. He slipped in behind and unseen by the bull to the centre of the arena, and there stood erect, with arms folded, motionless as a graven image.

Presently the bull turned, saw _El Tigre_, and charged him straight. _El Tigre_ was not even facing him, for the bull was approaching from his left. But there he stood without the twitch of a muscle or the flicker of an eye lid, still as a figure of stone.

A great sob arose from the audience, and all gave him up for lost, when, at the last instant before the bull must have struck, it turned and pa.s.sed him. Once more the bull so charged and pa.s.sed. Whether because it mistook him for the ghost of a man or recognized in him a spirit mightier than its own, only the bull knew.

Before the audience had well caught its breath, _El Tigre_, wearing again his usual costume, was striding again to the middle of the arena, carrying a light chair, in which presently he seated himself, facing the bull, a show _banderilla_, no more than six inches long, held in his teeth. And so he awaited the charge until the bull was within actual arm's-reach, when with a swift rise from the chair and a turn of his body quick as that of a fencer's supple wrist, he bent and stuck the teeth-held banderilla in the bull's shoulder as he swept past.

Now was the time for the kill.

El Tigre received his sword, _muleta_, and cape. The _muleta_ is a straight two-foot stick over which the cape is draped, and, held in the _matador's_ left hand, usually is extended well to the right of his body.

Thus in an ordinary fight the bull is actually charging the blood-red cape, and not the _matador_. But, with Sofia an onlooker, determined to make this the fight of his life, _El Tigre_ tossed aside the _muleta_, wrapped the crimson cape about his body, and stood alone awaiting the bull's charge, his malleable sword-blade bent slightly downward, sufficiently to give a true thrust behind the shoulder, a down-curve into heart or lungs.

With a bull of such extraordinary activity the act was almost suicidal, but _El Tigre_ smilingly took the chance. By toreador etiquette, the _matador_ must receive and dodge the first two charges; not until the third may he strike. On the first charge _El Tigre_ stood like a rock until the bull had almost reached him, and then lightly leaped diagonally across his lowered neck. The second charge, come an instant after the first, before most men could even turn, he dodged. The third he swiftly side-stepped, thrust true, and dropped the great Utreran midway of a leap aimed at his elusive enemy.

It was a deed magnificent, epic, and the plaza rung with plaudits while hats, fans, and even purses and jewels showered into the arena--all of which, by _toreador_ etiquette, were tossed back across the barrier to their owners.

Then the teams entered and quickly dragged the dead from the arena; the ugly, dangerously slippery red patches were fresh sanded, and the second bull was admitted. Thus, with more or less like incident, three more bulls were fought and killed.

The fifth and last, however, proved a disgrace to his race. Bluff he did, but fight he would not; the noise and crowd unnerved him. At last, frenzied with fear and seeking escape, he made a mighty leap to mount the barrier directly in front of the box of the _Presidente_. And mount it he did, and down it crashed beneath his weight, leaving the bull for a moment half down and tangled in the wreckage, struggling to regain his feet.

Directly in front of the bull, not six feet beyond the sharp points of his deadly horns, sat Sofia. Indeed none about her had risen; all sat as if frozen in their places. And just as well they might have been, for escape into or through the dense ma.s.s of spectators about them was utterly impossible. Whatever horror came they must await, helpless.

But at the bull's very start for the barrier, _El Tigre_, realized Sofia's peril and instantly sprang empty-handed in pursuit; for it was early in this the last _corrida_ and he did not have his sword,

Leaping the wreckage, _El Tigre_ landed directly in front of the bull, happily at the instant it regained its feet, where, with his right hand seizing the bull by the nose--his thumb and two fore-fingers thrust well within its nostrils--and with his left hand grabbing the right horn, with a mighty heave he uplifted the bull's muzzle and bore down upon its horn until he threw it with a crash upon its side that left it momentarily helpless.

But, himself slipping in the loose wreckage, down also _El Tigre_ fell, the bull's sharp right horn impaling his left thigh and pinning him to the ground.

Before the bull could rise, the men of the _cuadrilla_ had it safely bound and _El Tigre_ released. _El Tigre_, however, did not know it.

With the shock and pain of his wound he had fainted.

When at length he regained consciousness, it was to find his head pillowed in Sofia's lap, her soft fingers caressing his brow, her tearful eyes looking into his, and to hear her whisper: "Mauro _mio_!"

Just at this moment the Duke de Oviedo approached, no one knew whence.

White with jealousy but steady and cool, he quietly remarked:

"Madame, I ought to kill you both, but that my rank precludes.

Lucha-sangre, in yourself, as son of a notary and hired _toreador_ and purveyor of spectacles, you are unworthy of my sword; nevertheless blood once n.o.ble is in your veins. And so as n.o.ble it suits me now to count you. As soon as you are recovered of your wound I will send you my second."

"Most happy, Duke," answered Mauro; "mine shall be ready to meet him."

One evening a week later, while the Duke de Oviedo and two Mexican army officers were having drinks at the bar of the Cafe Concordia, General Delmonte, a Cuban long resident in New York and a distinguished veteran of three wars, entered with two American friends. Delmonte was describing to his friends _El Tigre's_ last fight, lauding his prowess, extolling his n.o.ble presence and high character. Infuriated by the ardent praise of his enemy, the Duke grossly insulted General Delmonte--and was very promptly slapped in the face.

They fought at daylight the next morning, beneath an arch of the ancient aqueduct, just outside the city. Encountering in Delmonte one of the best swordsmen of his time, early in the combat the Duke received a mortal wound. And as he there lay gasping out his life, he murmured a phrase that, at the moment, greatly puzzled his seconds:

_"Gana El Tigre._" (The Tiger Wins!)

CHAPTER XIII

BUNKERED

It seems it must have been somewhere about the year 4000 B. C. that we lost sight of the tall peaks of the architectural topography of Manhattan Island, and yet the log of the _Black Prince_ makes it no more than twenty days. Not that our day-to-day time has been dragging, for it has done nothing of the sort.

All my life long I have dreamed of indulging in the joy of a really long voyage, and now at last I've got it. New York to Cape Town, South Africa, 6,900 miles, thirty days' straight-away run, and thence another twenty-four days' sail to Mombasa, on a 7,000-ton cargo boat, deliberate and stately rather than fast of pace, but otherwise as trim, well groomed, and well found as a liner, with an official mess that numbers as fine a set of fellows as ever trod a bridge. The Captain, when not busy hunting up a stray planet to check his lat.i.tude, puts in his spare time hunting kindly things to do for his two pa.s.sengers--for there are only two of us, the Doctor and myself. The Doctor signed on the s.h.i.+p's articles as surgeon, I as purser.

Fancy it! Thirty days' clear respite from the daily papers, the telephone, the subway crowds, and the constant wear and tear on one's muscular system reaching for change, large and small! Thirty days free of the daily struggle either for place on the ladder of ambition or for the privilege to stay on earth and stand about and watch the others mount, that saps metropolitan nerves and squeezes the humanities out of metropolitan life until its hearts are arid and barren and cruel as those of the cavemen! Thirty days' repose, practically alone amid one of nature's greatest solitudes, awed by her silences, uplifted by the majesty of her mighty forces, with naught to do but humble oneself before the consciousness of his own littleness and unfitness, and study how to right the wrongs he has done.

Indeed a voyage like this makes it certain one will come actually to know one's own self so intimately that, unless well convinced that he will esteem and enjoy the acquaintance, he had best stay at home. Of my personal experience in this particular I beg to be excused from writing.

Lonesome out here? Far from it. Behind, to be sure, are those so near and dear, one would gladly give all the remaining years allotted him for one blessed half-hour with them. Otherwise, time literally flies aboard the _Black Prince_; the days slip by at puzzling speed. Roughly speaking, I should say the meals consume about half one's waking hours, for we are fed five times a day, and fed so well one cannot get his own consent to dodge any of them.

Indeed I've only one complaint to make of this s.h.i.+p; she is a "water-wagon" in a double sense, which makes it awkward for a man who never could drink comfortably alone. With every man of the mess a teetotaler, one is now and then possessed with a consuming desire for communion with some dear soul of thirsty memory who can be trusted to take his "straight." Of course I don't mean to imply that this mess cannot be trusted, for you can rely on it implicitly every time--to take tea; you can trust it with any mortal or material thing, except your pet brew of tea, if you have one, which, luckily, I haven't.

Indeed, for the thirsty man Nature herself in these lat.i.tudes is discouraging, for the Big Dipper stays persistently upside down, dry!--perhaps out of sympathy with the teetotal principles of this s.h.i.+p. And most of the way down here there has been such a high sea running that the only dry places I have noticed have been the upper bridge and my throat. The fact is, about everything aboard this s.h.i.+p is distressingly suggestive to a faithful knight of the tankard: he is surrounded with "ports" that won't flow and giant "funnels" that might easily carry spirits enough to wet the whistles of an army division (but don't), until he is tempted in sheer desperation to take a pull at the "main brace."

All of which, a.s.sisted by the advent of a covey of flying fishes and a (Sunday) "school" of porpoises, is responsible for the following, which is adventured with profuse apologies to Mr. Kipling:

ON THE ROAD TO MOMBASA

Take me north of the Equator Where'er gleams the polar star, Where "The Dipper" ne'er is empty And Orion is not far, Where the eagle at them gazes And up toward them thrusts the pine-- _Anywhere_ strong men drink spirits On the right side of "the line."

On the road to Mombas-a, Drawing nearer toward Cathay, Where the north star now is under, 'Neath the Southern Cross's ray.

Take me off this water wagon Where the Captain's ribbon's blue, Where the Doctor, yclept Barthwaite, And each man-jack of the crew Never get a drop of poteen, Never know the cheer of beer-- _Anywhere_ a thirsty man may Wet his whistle without fear.

On the road to Mombas-a, With the _Black Prince_, day by day Rolling her tall taffrail under, 'Neath a sky o'ercast and gray.

Take me back to good old Proctor's Where a man may quench his thirst, Where a purser with a s.h.i.+lling Needn't feel he is accursed By an ironclad owners' s.h.i.+p rule That her officers shouldn't drink-- _Anywhere_ the ringing gla.s.ses Merrily clink! clink!

On the road to Mombas-a, Where the only drink is "tay,"

Where a thirst that is a wonder Burns the throat from day to day.

Take me somewhere close to Rector's Where a man can get a crab, Where the blondined waves are tossing And every eye-glance is a stab, Where there's _froufrou_ of the _jupon_ And there's popping of the cork _Anywhere_ the men and women Snap their fingers at the stork.

On the road to Mombas-a, Where e'en mermaids never play, Where to come would be a blunder Hunting hot birds and Roger.

But lonesome out here? Never--with the sympathetic North Atlantic winds ever ready to roar you a grim dirge in your moments of melancholy contemplation of the inverted Dipper, with the gentle tropical breezes softly singing through the rigging notes of soothing cadence, with the lethal ocean billows ever leaping up the sides of the s.h.i.+p, foaming with the joy of what they would do to you if they once got you in their embrace!