THE UNDEFEATED
who gets the beautiful horses,” Hernandez grinned.
The mules came through the gate in a rush, the whips snapping, bells jangling and the young bull ploughing a furrow of sand.
They formed up for the paseo as soon as the bull had gone through.
Manuel and Hernandez stood in front. The youths of the cuadrillas were behind, their heavy capes furled over their arms. In back, the four picadors, mounted, holding their steel-tipped push-poles erect in the half-dark of the corral.
“It’s a wonder Retana wouldn’t give us enough light to see the horses by,” one picador said.
“He knows we’ll be happier if we don’t get too good a look at these skins,” another pic answered.
“This thing I’m on barely keeps me off the ground,” the first picador said.
“Well, they’re horses.”
“Sure, they’re horses.”
They talked, sitting their gaunt horses in the dark.
Zurito said nothing. He had the only steady
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