EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

Nightfall descended on the open range. Lightning streaked across the dark sky while rain pounded the dusty land with the fury of a full-blown storm. Ten-year-old Ramon Montiel kicked his pinto in the sides and galloped from arroyo to arroyo toward Rancho Ortega.

Near the base of the mountains, he reined up hard, almost sliding over a gully’s bank. Below, in the gulch’s bed, fast filling with rushing water, lay the remains of a cow and a bull; their necks and flanks ripped apart. Eyes bulging, tongues protruding, the animals still writhed in their own blood. Wailing beside them was a small, pure-black calf, trying to stand on shaky legs in the rising torrent.

Ramon took one look at the soaring water surrounding the calf and leaped off his pony, grabbed his reata, and tied one end to the saddle horn. Pulling the rope tight as the pinto backed away, he worked his way down the muddy bank.

Thunder boomed overhead. As the boy neared him, the frightened calf shied away, flopping in the swelling water, trying desperately to stand. It bellowed in its small way until its nose was almost under water.

Ramon lunged for the calf but slipped, fell into the water, and was swept downstream. Grasping his rope, Ramon pulled himself back and grabbed the wet calf. His pony stood fast, keeping the reata taut. Ramon squeezed the calf and slipped the lariat around its neck. The calf lurched into the water but Ramon held tight and pulled it to the bank.

The cow and bull carcasses lay in mud, their blood washing into the raging stream. The wind roared like a grizzly just before a kill. Ramon turned toward the sound, his eyes big and searching. He stood still, waiting. Cold rain pelted his lean face. His hands tightened around the reata, cut into his fingers.

A few minutes later, Ramon cradled the calf in his arms and inched up the slippery bank. He fell twice but squeezed the calf to his chest until he climbed to level ground. “You are safe now, little Toro.” Lifting the calf over the pinto’s neck, he mounted, pressed one hand on the calf’s flank, and held the reins with his other hand.

Across the gorge, a lone horseman eased his large horse down the slick embankment into the water. “Ramon! Ramon!”

Startled, Ramon turned toward the sound. “Papa! I found a calf. Its mother and father were killed.”

Luis Montiel forced his horse through the swift water, dismounted, and limped toward Ramon. “The Señor’s prize bull and cow. A grizzly must have done this.” He picked up the loose end of the reata and looped it around the calf’s and pony’s necks. “That should keep him on. Now, Ramon, you get out of here, the bear may still be around.”

“Yes, Papa.” Ramon turned his pinto, patted the wiggling calf on the head, and urged his mount toward the rancho.

THE BULLFIGHT

The festive crowd began arriving by mid-morning of a cloudless day at Rancho Ortega’s large arena, which served as the plaza de toros. Every rainbow color was represented by the elegant ladies’ and their señors’ attire. The rich patrons sat in the shade; the poor patrons sat in the open under the warming sun as it inched its way toward high noon.

Luis Montiel had awakened early, lit a candle at the chapel, and prayed. He put on his shimmering rose-colored suit, highlighted by gold sequins on the silk. The pants fit tight against his hard, slender legs and the short vest cinched against his raw-boned upper body. He thought of it as his “fine suit of lights.”

The late-afternoon sun beat down on the vociferous spectators waiting for Luis’s ceremonious entrance. The trumpet played the Paso doble as the gate opened. Luis entered the arena with his crimson and yellow dress cape thrown over his left shoulder and tightly wrapped around his waist. His left hand laid across his breast while his right hand swung free.

The crowd broke into applause when Luis circled the arena, throwing flowers and wineskins, as was their custom.

Behind Luis paraded two banderilleros; behind them rode two picadores on horseback. They were dressed in black and silver embroidered suits.

Luis stopped before Señor Ortega and the other dignitaries and saluted them by pressing his montera down with his hand before walking behind the protective barrier.

The crowd quieted for a moment, waiting for the first tercio. The bull’s gate opened and a large, black bull trotted into the ring. Luis stepped out and made a series of passes. The bull attacked the movements with the savage force expected of a Spanish bull. Luis retreated behind the barrier again.

Then the picadores reentered the ring on horseback and jabbed their long pike poles into the junction of the bull’s neck and shoulder blades.

Luis looked at the bull then walked to the ring’s center. His face stern, eyes focused, he performed more dramatic passes with his cape.

Then the banderilleros placed two barbed-iron tipped wooden staves decorated with brightly colored paper into the thick hump of the bull’s withers. The bull broke away, turned, and drove its horns into one of the banderilleros.

Luis watched the man drop. “Ehe, toro!” He snapped his cape, creating a cracking sound.

The bull whirled and slid to a stop in the soft sand. Luis waved the cape. The bull, flanks wet with blood, saliva running from his mouth, pawed the ground and straightened his tail. The matador taunted the great bull. The bull stood still, panting, watching.

The spectators jeered, booed. “Mala! Mala! Where is the killer bull?”

Luis dropped on his knees, faced the bull. “Ehe, toro! Ehe, toro!” He flaunted the cape back and forth.

The bull pawed the ground harder now. His large nostrils sprayed sand each time he snorted. Luis stood, passed the cape across and behind his body. The bull broke for the movement; its weapons, white horns of death, poised for the attack on the man tormenting him.

Luis arched his back, formed the classical body carriage, and planted his feet for the bull’s charge. Luis led the charging beast inches from his body with balletic passes of the cape to his left and twirling Veronicas. Bumped by the bull but not gored, Luis’s suit was stained with the bull’s blood.

Luis recovered from the bump quickly, maneuvering the cape behind his back with both hands. The bull charged again. This time, Luis moved the cape to the left in a perfect Gaonera. His planted feet did not move an inch. The bull flew past him, horns made harmless by the flowing cape.

The crowd clapped. “Olé! Olé!” Men waved hats.

Every time Luis set up, the bull charged more forcefully. Sometimes straight on, sometimes hooking and swerving, alternating left and right horns, each time just grazing Luis’s stomach.

The crowd cheered the closer the bull came to goring the matador. Covered with sweat and dirt, the bull thundered at his adversary who passed the cape so effortlessly. Once, the bull hooked Luis’s right sleeve causing a large gash on his arm. Blood poured from the wound to the sand. Spectators moaned at the sight. Luis dropped his right arm to his side, holding the cape in his other hand. He turned his head for a quick moment but the bull’s horns thrust past him, just missing a leg. The bull whipped around and launched another attack. The torero sidestepped and adjusted the cape in his left hand.

Time and again, the majestic bull charged Luis, whose bloody arm became weaker even while his timing and rhythm with the cape dominated the animal.

Now it was time for the faena when the matador distracted the bull with the muleta, a fan-shaped scarlet cloth draped over a short stick, and plunged his sword into the meat between the shoulder blades down into the bull’s heart.

An attendant brought Luis the sword and muleta. Luis put the sword in his left hand; his injured right arm was too weak but he managed to hold the muleta.

The bull stomped around the ring waiting for more cape movements. Some spectators threw flowers into the arena and roared for the final fight. The bull turned toward Luis, who stood alone in the ring’s center.

Luis dedicated the bull to the officials then made several strained passes while the bull’s huge horns just brushed his upper thighs and stomach. Luis set his jaw. His eyes, serious, hard, he gripped the sword handle tight and cocked his left hand back by his chin. He stared into the bull’s eyes and drew the bull’s head down with a flicker of the muleta.

The stands fell quiet.

Luis shifted his eyes for a split second. One of the bull’s horns ripped into the back of Luis’s knee, came out the front and twisted his foot so it pointed backward. Luis hit the ground hard. Only a single tendon connected his thigh to his calf. The bull’s massive head bore down on Luis with its horns twisting right and left.

Attendants jabbed lances at the bull, chasing him away from Luis’s body. The matador rolled side to side in the blood-covered sand.

Other attendants rushed to Luis with a stretcher and ripped off his shirt to wrap it around the almost-severed leg. “You are bleeding so much. Lie still, please.”

Luis continued to writhe in pain. But as they carted him from the arena, he managed to raise his left arm in a salute.

The crowd roared. “Olé! Olé!”

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