TWO days after the fire all was bustle and confusion at the farm, for this was the day of the long anticipated bull-fight that was to occur in Mexico City and for which these especial bulls had been raised and fattened. It was barely sunrise when the little procession started for the city; the object in starting so soon being to avoid the crowd of people anxious to view the bulls before they reached the arena.
Billy Jr. and Stubby went along as a matter of course—they must see everything going—and they had no intentions whatsoever of missing the great fight, particularly as the odds were in favor of their favorite bull. Our Billy knew thoroughbreds when he saw them and could pick the winners. To-day’s favorite was strong of bone, supple of joint, solid of flesh, with a quick eye and a temper like a firecracker. He was handsome to look upon with his fine, short, glossy black coat and beautifully curved horns with tips like needles, that could pierce a horse’s skin and rip him open in the approved Mexican style. His eyes were large and brilliant and his nose with its sensitive nostrils as red as the cactus blossom of his native country. And how he could bellow and paw the ground when mad! Yes, Billy was sure he would win against all odds.
After they reached the city, he could hear the big bull stamping around in his stall and bellowing for his breakfast. His royal highness was not accustomed to be kept waiting, he was always fed on the dot—just at sunrise, and here it was twelve o’clock and not a bite, not even a whisp of hay. Had his master forgotten him? What an outrage after his long walk in from the farm! What in the world could be the meaning of such treatment? He little realized that he was being starved for a purpose.
“I tell you what it is, Billy,” he grumbled, “if that crazy stable boy don’t bring me something to eat soon, I’ll toss him over the barn.”
“Hark! what is that? I hear music. Don’t you? And the rumble of many feet as the crowd of people take their places in the amphitheatre.”
“You are right, Billy, the band is playing; it is almost time to begin. Well, if I don’t get something to eat before very long I’ll give them some sport worthy the name when I get into the arena. Shut up in here, treated so badly, and starved to death—I’ll make somebody pay well for it.”
“Listen,” said Billy, “they are clapping and stamping, impatient for the fight to begin.”
“They can’t begin any too soon to please me,” said Little Duke, which was the name of Billy’s favorite bull. “There goes Black Jack on his way to the ring. Billy, just hear the crowd cheer and shout! He must have stepped into the arena. He is a nasty one to handle when he is angry. If he gets a chance to dig his horns into one of those toreadors or horses, the man in the moon pity them and have mercy on them, for Black Jack won’t! It will be the last fight that man or horse ever sees.”
Bull after bull passed by their stall on their way to the arena, but none ever returned; and the band played and the people cheered until at last some one came for Little Duke, the flower of the flock. He, like the others, was led into the ring to be teased and tantalized, tortured and tormented until, crazy with pain and blind with fury, he would rip horse after horse open in his mad rage to get at the toreador who was goading him on with pricks from a long spear. And yet the blood-thirsty Mexicans yelled for more.
But all things must come to an end; and Billy thought that it was high time for this particular fight to come to an end right here. He had heard a bellow of rage from Little Duke, followed by a groan of agony. This was too much for Billy. When a friend called for help he could not stay away; so with one bound he was out of his stall and bang! against the little door that separated him from the arena. This gave way with a crash, and with a rush and a plunge Billy bounded into the ring.
The first thing he saw when clear of splinters and dust was a huge ampitheatre packed from the lowest to the highest row of seats with people, until the faces made a human curtain. In the arena lay disemboweled horses and slaughtered bulls. In the very center stood Little Duke, bleeding from a hundred wounds, but still unsubdued and defending himself nobly. There he stood with head erect, eyes blazing, and nostrils quivering, ready to kill the first man or horse that attacked him.
In a twinkling Billy took in the situation, and before the audience or fighters knew what had happened, Billy had tossed one toreador to one side, nearly breaking his back; had put another to flight; and then made straight for the horseman who had so cruelly tortured Little Duke. Just then an attendant opened a door, the man and horse escaped, and the ring was cleared.
Billy, going back to see how badly Little Duke was hurt, licked his nose in sympathy, and told him to brace up, for the fight was over for that day. This pathetic scene seemed to touch even the hard hearts of the Mexicans. They began to bid for the ownership of the goat and to cheer and cheer until they could have been heard many blocks from the amphitheatre.
At last Billy, perceived that he and his friend were standing alone in the centre of the big ring with every eye upon them. The next thing he noticed was that a little stubby-tailed yellow dog was circling round and round them, barking in great glee. The fight was over and Stubby had come to congratulate them.
Here ends the great bull-fight of the ninth of May, nineteen hundred and four.