A light touch, the stakes were in, and they were
off. But to drive a knife through twelve or fourteen inches of bull
gristle! Cogan pictured himself walking into a butcher's shop, picking
out twelve or fourteen inches of tough gristle and driving a knife
through it. He could do it, of course he could, or any man, but he would
have to brace legs and back to get enough power in the stroke. But to
stop to brace for that stroke and a rampant seventeen-hundred-pound bull
piling down on top of you, and to pick out a spot on his neck no bigger
than a fifty-cent piece! And if you missed your spot! Or were a little
bit slow! Even in being too soon there was danger, if you could imagine
a man being too quick.
"That was how Cogan looked at it, and he felt himself worrying for
Torellas. He looked toward the Rocas. The mother and Guavera were no
longer talking, and Valera was again drawn back between them, but her
father was leaning well forward with eyes fixed on Torellas.
"There was great shouting when Torellas faced the bull--and then a great
silence. Torellas moved his cape-draped forearm--up, down, coaxingly.
The bull headed for him. Torellas stepped aside. The bull passed on and
wheeled. Torellas took half a dozen dancing steps. The bull followed.
Torellas waved his arm, the bull charged. Torellas leaped easily to one
side. The bull passed on.
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