El Paso: A Novel (54 page)

If he’d had time, Johnny would have tried to pick up the knife Rafael hadn’t managed to stick into Casa Grande and finish the job, but he realized this wouldn’t work. So, in his authority as matador he declared the first two
tercios
to be finished and the final one, the
tercio
of death, to begin. The custom was for the matador to then present himself to the
juez
of the bullfight—the judge, who in this case was Villa himself. Ordinarily, after receiving a nod to proceed, Johnny would “dedicate” the bull to someone.

Under other circumstances it would have been Donita, as he’d done in the past, but he was thankful that, by her own request, she wouldn’t be here, and so there was no need for a charade. He merely stood before Villa, who was conspicuous atop the rocks with Fierro and others of his staff—including an odd-looking character in a dark suit wearing a monocle—and bowed. Villa returned the gesture with a nod of his own.

Despite the bottomless pain and remorse Johnny felt at the loss of his brothers, he thought of Donita and felt sad that she would probably have to witness his burial. He hoped that if something grave happened, Villa would just leave him there as crow bait and move on. He wished he’d brought the matter up before the bullfight.

There was a cruel little smile on Villa’s lips, but otherwise the general’s face remained impassive. Johnny tried to overcome his horror by thinking of Donita. It all suddenly rushed back to him that he’d been unfair to her and brusque and impatient when she’d wanted him to give up bullfighting and concentrate on getting the ranch manager’s job; and was arrogant in his ways, too, and often not caring of someone who loved him so. In the few remaining moments he had to himself, he dedicated the bull to her. Maybe it would bring him luck.

REED HAD NEVER SEEN A BULLFIGHT BEFORE
and was perfectly ignorant of what could happen. He turned away disgusted at the first sight of blood even before Luis was dead. Bierce, who had seen some fights in Tijuana during his California newspapering days, stayed, but he was revolted, too. During the short break in the action he was standing next to Strucker, the newcomer in Villa’s entourage.

“This is almost prehistoric, don’t you think?” the German asked him, apparently enraptured with the goings-on down in the little canyon.

“No. In fact, it’s utterly consistent with this gruesome century,” Bierce responded. “It may be a pity, but it’s true. I thought the last century was horrid, but it’s nothing compared to what this one’s going to be.”

Strucker digested that answer for a moment, but wasn’t satisfied with it. “Yes, but here is man against beast; a marvelous anachrony. It carries us all back to barbarism, don’t you think?”

“We’ve never left it,” retorted Bierce. “Look what’s going on in Europe—or down here in Mexico, for that matter. If that’s civilized, I’ll kiss your ass.”

Startled by this uncouth response, Strucker nodded with a grunt, never taking his eyes off the gory spectacle unfolding before him. By now, Johnny Ollas had walked back out to face Casa Grande.

“You, sir, I take it, are an American?” Strucker said.

“You take it right. Are you a Dutchman?”

“German,” Strucker replied.

“In the war, they were all the same to us,” said Bierce. A great many German emigrants had fought for the North and were referred to by boths sides as “Dutchmen”—as in,
Sprechen Sie deutsch?

“Your Civil War, I expect?” he said, having noted Bierce’s age. “Well, we aren’t. The Dutch are a silly little people who wear wooden shoes and build windmills and live in swamps.”

“For a while they ruled the seas and the continents,” Bierce reminded him. He felt like leaving the bullfight but thought it would be cowardly. If the third man was to be killed, he might as well bear witness to it as the only reluctant spectator of the bunch. When he saw the German Strucker come into camp that morning, with all his pomp and bearing, Bierce thought he might turn out to be some peculiar voice of civility or rectitude or decency.

Now he understood otherwise. The human race was still headed to hell in a handbasket, just like it always had been, he thought.

Tom Mix was standing nearby and had overheard Bierce and Strucker. He didn’t know what to make of the German, but had to give him credit for following them all the way out here alone. Mix squinted down into the bullring. He could see Johnny assuming a profiled stance to receive Casa Grande’s charge. Poor brave fellow, Mix thought. He had left Donita and the children under the guard of several of his men and told her he would come straight back and tell her what had happened. Now, as he watched the grisly panorama, Mix sensed that Johnny was going to die in a very few minutes—in the full glory of his life and without ever catching on to the lie that he was going live forever—a textbook case of no way out.

Johnny Ollas felt the ground beneath him tremble as Casa Grande thundered toward him. A second later Johnny turned daintily to avoid the horn and managed to slash out with the saber at Casa Grande’s left eye. The blow struck home and the animal let out a bellow and began madly tossing his head. Johnny could see blood pouring from the eye and suddenly saw a ray of hope. If he could slash the other eye, the bull would be blinded. But Casa Grande was hooking left again—not a good sign.

His good eye was on the opposite side of his head, where Johnny couldn’t get at it, but he could actually feel the steamy breath as the bull nudged the bloody shirt and went past. Johnny was consciously trying to keep his feet still—avoiding the little pitty-pat mouse feet that were the sign of fear and cowardice. If this was to be his last fight, he could at least not show he was scared.

Casa Grande trotted a dozen yards away and turned, hooves pawing, head shaking. His hide shining wet with blood from the knives of Luis and Rafael, and his face covered with gore from the sabered eye.

“
Ayiii, toro!
” Johnny exclaimed, jiggling the shirt. The bull snorted and came at him again—and again Johnny eluded him with some fancy cape work. From the crowd of spectators he heard someone shout, “
Ol
é
!
” Johnny knew he had to get on the side with the good eye.

On the next charge others took up the cry, until the little box canyon swelled with their approval. Johnny was inciting Casa Grande with a series of veronicas, maneuvers in which he stood with his feet planted, sweeping the shirt out ahead of the bull’s face just as he was about to gore, hoping he would turn the blind eye to the side. This further inspired the enthusiasm of the crowd, because they’d noticed that Johnny’s feet were still and firmly planted, as if he were nailed to the ground.

It was not so hard for a matador to run or jump out of the bull’s way, but performing veronicas took courage not to get the little mouse-feet. Knowledgeable spectators appreciated that.

Johnny had managed to put the fates of Luis and Rafael temporarily behind him and was feeling more confident. His heart actually beat with the satisfaction that he hadn’t turned coward. He finished one pass with a
mariposa—
a butterfly—stepping in so close that Casa Grande turned in on himself so sharply that it actually brought the bull to his knees. The crowd now began to shout, “Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!”

If the bastards had flowers they would be throwing them at me, Johnny thought bitterly.

The bull was tiring quickly now and had returned to his
querencia
and wouldn’t come out. It was the most dangerous part of the
tercio
of death because the matador has to enter the bull’s terrain to lure him out. Casa Grande seemed instinctively to know not to expose his uninjured eye to Johnny, who was closing in. Johnny decided it might be a good time to forget about the eye and go for the kill.

Johnny got down on his knees and began to provoke Casa Grande with the bloody shirt. The bull pawed and snorted and tossed his head once, but did not charge. The tossing of the head was a bad sign, too. Johnny inched closer on his knees, playing the shirt slightly in his left hand, his right clutching the cavalry saber. It was a far cry from the Seville steel of a matador’s
estoque
.

“Hey,
toro
!” Johnny cried.

Casa Grande backed up a few steps until he literally bumped into the logs the soldiers had piled for a
barrera
and this obviously startled him, because all at once Casa Grande rushed at Johnny with a ferocious charge, head lowered. Johnny sprang to his feet and with a clear, swift motion raised the saber over his head to plunge it in. The bull unexpectedly swerved right, throwing Johnny off balance as he tried to gain position; then the two of them, man and beast, collided.

Johnny was tossed over the bull’s horns, plunging the saber into Casa Grande’s hump; he could feel it slide through flesh and then something more solid—not the bone of the spinal cord but the pad that connected the bones, thus severing the spine, while at the same instant Casa Grande jerked his head upward, goring Johnny clean through his thigh and lifting him into the air with a mighty toss. Before Johnny even hit the ground, Casa Grande was dead. The bull took two wobbly steps, then keeled over, all four legs in the air.

Johnny knew he, himself, was hurt but not how badly; he was still in shock from what had happened to his brothers, and from the collision with Casa Grande. But he’d won the fight. He heard yelling and cheering. Men rushed down from the rock pile and surrounded him. Someone cut away his pants and there was a groan from the bystanders. The horn had gone clean through the leg and cut the femoral artery, leaving a ragged hole nearly three inches wide that was spurting blood like a pump.

After he watched the final act, Mix ran back to the encampment to fetch Donita. He didn’t know how badly Johnny was hurt, but figured that if the wound was fatal, at least the couple deserved some last words. Johnny lay on his back with his head raised, trying to see the wound. He saw only his life spilling out on the bare dirt of the canyon floor. He felt dizzy and sick but there was no pain. Hovering over him were the faces of Villa, Fierro, and a few others he recognized, including Gourd Woman, whose face was ashen and her teeth bared; the pain that Johnny didn’t feel was all in her eyes. Men knelt beside him, and one whom Johnny recognized as Villa’s doctor was doing something to his leg and talking excitedly.

“You fought a brave fight, matador,” he heard Villa say, as if from a distance.

It was the last thing Johnny Ollas remembered.

FIFTY-THREE

F
rom their hiding place on the canyon rim, Bomba and Henry Flipper had been passing the spyglass between them, quiet as mice. They saw the deaths of Luis and Rafael and the goring of Johnny and the collapse of Casa Grande. It was a mystifying spectacle.

Finally Flipper whispered, “I wonder where they got that bull.”

“Still don’t see the children,” Bomba said.

“Well, it’s a big camp. You can’t see everybody.”

“You think something happened to them?”

“I can’t believe they would have brought a fighting bull all the way down in these canyons,” Flipper said. “These people might do anything.”

By now the crowd had begun to drift back to their campfires. The smell of food cooking wafted up to the top of the bluffs. Flipper scanned the box canyon again. He saw the dead bull, the still bodies of two men, and hovering over the third appeared to be a woman. Bomba took the glass and crept away down the bluff to get a better view. After a long while he came back, disgusted, and shook his head.

“No children. Looks like they finished breakfast and they all leaving now,” he said. Flipper had already seen Villa’s advance guard riding out up the canyon and the wagons and others moving behind them.

“Well, at least you’ve found Villa,” Flipper told him. “I hope you’re satisfied. Now what do you propose to do?”

“Go after,” said Bomba.

“How can you possibly do anything to get out those kids, in these canyons?” Flipper said under his breath, exasperated. “There’s no room for maneuver. There’s no place to go.”

“Have to try,” Bomba replied.

“You’re a fool,” Flipper told him. “They’re headed north. They’ll be out of the canyons in another day or so. Maybe then there’ll be an opportunity.”

“Maybe,” Bomba said. He put the spyglass to his eye again and swung it down along the caravan. Suddenly he stopped and swung back.

“There,” he said. “Children.”

Flipper took a look. He saw the boy and girl surrounded by a dozen or so riders. They were moving past the little box canyon where the bullfight had been held. There was a woman on a horse someone was leading by the reins. She was shaking her head violently and waving her arms, and the sounds of her screaming drifted up out of the canyon and echoed on its walls.

“See, what did I tell you?” Flipper said. “How do you think you can get through that to take those kids—and still live?”

“The people they left behind,” Bomba said, meaning the downed matador and the woman kneeling next to him. “Maybe they know something.”