The Bear and the Bull

by Harvey Mendez

  The Bear and the Bull

  A Novel

  by

  Harvey Mendez

  Copyright 2003 by Harvey Mendez

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by SynergEbooks

  http://www.synergebooks.com

  To my lovely wife, Ann,

  who helped so much with my story.

  PROLOGUE

  Nightfall descended on the open range. Lightning streaked across the dark sky and 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, the frightened calf shied away, flopped in the swelling water, and struggled to get up. Eyes blazing fear, 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, serving 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, inching 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. “A fine suit of lights.” He smiled, looking in the mirror.

  The late-afternoon sun beat down on the vociferous spectators waiting for Luis’s ceremonious entrance. The trumpet played the Paso doble when 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 lay across his breast while his right hand swung free.

  While Luis circled the arena, the crowd broke into applause and threw flowers and wineskins into the ring.

  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, waited 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 and watching the torero.

  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, chased 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, ripped off his shirt, and wrapped 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!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Mexican vaquero pointed to the dead cattle in the chill of the spring air. “Look.”

  His partner spurred his horse down the arroyo. Dismounting, he examined bloody flanks from the ripped-apart animals. “The work of the giant beast.”

  “We’d better get back to the rancho—tell the Señor,” the first vaquero said.

  They turned their horses south as dawn’s first light spread across the mesa at the base of twin-peaked Kalawpa Mountain. Early-morning frost covered the rocks and manzanita, stretched over the land. The vaqueros quickened their pace to a full gallop.

  Several miles outside the town of San Juan Capistrano, the tired, dusty vaqueros galloped through the large front gate of Rancho Ortega on sweating horses. Francisco Ortega, padrone of the villa, and his foreman, Luis Montiel, glanced up from their breakfast table on the veranda of the main house.

  “Señor! Señor!” The lead rider reined his horse. “The grizzly is back! We found three more carcasses.”

  The startled Ortega pushed his chair back and stood. “Bulls or cows?”

  “Cows—we’ve been out all night.”

  “We must end this!” Señor Ortega bent his powerful frame forward, pounded his large fist on the table. “Our prize cows are for breeding with the best Spanish fighting bulls, not food for the beast.”

  Luis, lean and muscular, rose from his chair and turned to the vaqueros. “Get the lazadores. Our riders will bring him in.”

  Ramon Montiel, Luis’s thirteen-year-old son, heard the shouting and ran downstairs to the veranda. The two horsemen rode to the bunkhouse.

  “Papa.” Ramon caught his breath, stopped beside the table. “What is happening?”

  “Some of our champion cows have been killed.” Luis stared past the gate at the open pasture extending to the hills.

  Ramon tugged his father’s shirtsleeve. “How?”

  Luis turned his rugged, brown face to his son. “By the grizzly.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. This time we will capture him.”

  “Can I go?”

  Luis looked into Ramon’s widening, dark-brown eyes. “No.”

  “But Papa, I am thirteen now.”

  “It is too dangerous. You are still too young.”

  Ramon rose to his full height, which almost came to his father’s chest and opened his mouth.

  “Enough now.” Luis extended his hand. “You stay.”

  Señor Ortega brushed back his gray hair, put an arm around Ramon’s small shoulder. “You will see the bear soon enough.”

  “I could help.” Ramon clenched his fists. “I ride well.”

  “No, young man,” Ortega said. “You are like my own. We do not want anything to happen to you.”

  Ramon looked at the tall padrone’s weathered face. “I am not so young. Remember, my Toro—I raised him from a calf.”

  “Yes, my little torero, you raised a fine bull, but you must stay with me until your father returns.” Ortega patted the boy’s shoulder. “Only the finest riders and horses may hunt the grizzly.”

  Ramon sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  The five lazadores rode up with Luis’s horse. Ramon followed his father down the steps, stroked the horse’s neck while Luis mounted.

  “We must plant the bait before the sun rises too high,” Luis said.

  Ramon ran back on the porch to Señor Ortega and waved. He should be going. He was a good horseman. His pinto knew what to do. He even helped train the young bulls. The bear had killed.

  Led by Luis, the skilled horsemen trotted through the gate toward the green hills. Ramon lingered by the steps, watched the riders disappear in the distance.

  Señor Ortega turned. “Ramon, get your breakfast now. I have work to do in the office.” He walked into the house.

  Ramon raised his left hand, shielded his eyes from the sun, and peered one more time after the riders.

  The cooks shooed Ramon out of the kitchen after he finished his breakfast. He walked down the hall without making any noise and looked around the open door into Señor Ortega’s office. The padrone was busy at his desk sorting through papers. Ramon watched for several minutes making sure the Señor had plenty of work to keep him there.

  After checking the halls, Ramon raced out the back door, headed for the rail-fenced corral. He saddled his brown and white pinto and led him to the rear pasture gate. Mounting the paint, Ramon galloped across the sagebrush to a gully and spurred his Indian pony along the arroyo toward the hills.

  * * *

  As the coolness of early morning wore off, scattered thunderheads hovered in the sky above a massive grizzly chewing on a large piece of steer carcass. Luis, in trees above the bear, sat quietly on his horse. Two pheasants flew from their nest in the foothills. The grizzly looked up from his meal. It was time. Luis spurred his horse. The bear dropped the meat from its powerful jaws and thundered out of the manzanita brush. Riding hard, Luis chased the grizzly down the hillside.

  Ramon reined up his pony on the other side of the clearing while his father drove the bear down the hill. Such a monstrous grizzly he had never seen. Be careful, Papa.

  One of the horses, ridden by a younger vaquero, smelled the bear, jerked at his bit, and broke into the clearing. The rider tightened his reins, brought the horse to a dusty stop. “Ayeeee! Look, they come.”

  “Hold those horses,” the oldest vaquero said to the riders. “The bear’s gigantic.”

  Ramon’s paint backed away, fought the bit, pounded its hooves on the ground.

  “Easy, boy.” Ramon pulled on the reins but could not take his eyes off the magnificent bear. How would they ever capture him?

  The snarling grizzly saw the riders, stopped, and reared on its hind legs. The most skilled lazadore threw his reata at the bear’s forepaws but lassoed its neck instead. Roaring, the towering bear drew in the rope, lashed out, and knocked man and horse to the ground.

  Ramon gasped and tightened his hands on the reins. The bear would kill the man. He looked for his father but did not see him—too much dust.

  The other riders shouted, whipped their horses, tried to distract the grizzly. The bear lunged at them, whirled, and pounced on the fallen horse’s neck. The horse struggled for breath but in a few moments its muscles heaved their last twitch.

  Ramon sat frozen in his saddle; his eyes fixed on the sight before him
, his mouth wide open. The bear would kill them all.

  The fallen lazadore was pinned under the horse’s hindquarters. The bear stood, watched the man struggle. Blood dripped from the grizzly’s mouth. Its growl grew louder. Wild-eyed, the vaquero thrashed about under his horse trying to pry himself free. The bear opened its jaws.

  Ramon whipped his paint and charged into the clearing at full gallop straight for the bear. “Ayeeee! Ayeeee!” He waved his charro in circles above his head.

  The grizzly bolted from the fallen horse and man, girded for Ramon’s attack.

  “Ramon!” Luis rode between the bear and the boy.

  Ramon veered right. Luis maneuvered his horse, threw a rope around one of the grizzly’s huge paws. Before the bear grabbed the line, another vaquero roped the other front paw. Pulling their horses backward, they held the forelegs apart, and tilted the bear backward while the other riders noosed the hind feet.

  Ramon circled the men and bear, keeping his eyes riveted on the action—ready to charge the bear if anyone got in trouble.

  With one quick tug, the lazadores flipped the fighting grizzly on its back while the other vaqueros noosed its hind legs again. The four horses stretched to their strength’s limit, held the ropes tight. The bear struggled with its bonds, twisting back and forth.

  The thrown rider freed himself, retrieved his reata, and approached the bear. Waiting for a distracting moment, he threw a rope around its forepaws. Each of the bear’s paws was now held taut with a rider’s lasso. With a second rope, he cinched the paws together. The bear roared, fought the rope. The vaquero tethered another reata from the paws to the grizzly’s neck.

  “Wrap those jaws shut.” Luis pulled on his reins, forced his horse backward.

  The bear’s mouth, wide open, frothing, snapped at every movement. Hurling a rope around the grizzly’s nose, the vaquero tightened the reata, looped it several times before tying a knot.