Part 29 (2/2)

”You are right, but think of our sister.”

In the meantime, the circle around the ring had been dispersed; the fight was going to commence. The voices began to die away, and the two soltadores and the skilled gaff fitter, were alone in the middle of the rueda. At a signal from the referee, the sheaths were removed from the razor-like knives on the c.o.c.ks' legs, and the fine blades glistened in a menacing way.

The two brothers, gloomy and silent, approached the ring and, resting their faces against the bamboo railing, watched the preparations. A man approached them and said in their ears: ”Hundred to ten on the blanco!”

Tarsilo looked at him stupidly. Bruno elbowed his brother, who responded with a grunt.

The soltadores handle the roosters with masterly skill, taking great care not to wound them. A deep silence reigns throughout the pit. You would think that those present, with the exception of the two soltadores, were horrible wax figures. The two roosters are brought close together and allowed to pick at each other and thus become irritated. Then they allow them to look at each other, so that the poor little birds may know who has plucked out their feathers, and with whom they should fight. The feathers around the neck stand up; they look at each other fixedly; flashes of wrath escape from their little, round eyes. The moment has come. The birds are placed on the ground in the ring at a certain distance from each other.

The c.o.c.ks advance slowly. Their little steps are heard upon the hard floor. n.o.body speaks; n.o.body breathes. Lowering and raising their heads, as if measuring each other with a look, the two roosters mutter sounds, perhaps of threat or contempt. They have perceived the s.h.i.+ning blades. Danger animates them, and they turn toward each other decided, but they stop at a short distance, and, as they look at each other, they bow their heads and again raise their feathers on end. With their natural valor, they rush at each other impetuously; they strike beak against beak; breast against breast, blade against blade, and wing against wing. The blows have been stopped with dexterity and skill, and only a few feathers have fallen. They again measure each other! Suddenly the blanco turns and, raising himself in the air, flashes his death-dealing knife, but the rojo has already doubled up his legs, ducked his head and the blanco has only cut the air. Then, on touching the ground, to avoid being wounded from behind, he turns quickly and faces the other. The red attacks him with fury, but he defends himself with coolness. Not without reason was he the favorite of the crowd. All, trembling and anxious, follow the movements of the battle, now this one and now that one giving an involuntary shout. The ground is being covered with red and white feathers, tinged with blood. But the duel does not go to the one who draws first blood. The Filipino here follows the laws laid down by the Government, which say that the c.o.c.k which is killed or flees loses the fight. The blood now wets the ground; the blows are repeated, but the victory is still undecided. Finally, making a supreme effort, the blanco throws himself forward to give a last blow; he drives his knife into the wing of the rojo and buries it among the bones. But the blanco has been wounded in the breast, and both, weak from loss of blood, and panting, fastened together, remain immovable until the blanco falls, bleeds through his neck, kicks violently and is in the agony of death. The rojo, pinned by his wing, is held to the other's side; and little by little he doubles up his legs and slowly closes his eyes.

Then the referee, in accordance with the regulations prescribed by the Government, declares the rojo the winner. A wild and prolonged outcry greets the decision, an outcry which is heard throughout the town. He, who, from afar, hears the cry, understands that the dejado has beaten the favorite, for otherwise the outcry would not have lasted so long. So it happens among nations: when a small nation succeeds in gaining a victory over a greater one, the song and story of it last through centuries.

”Do you see?” said Bruno, with indignation, to his brother, ”if you had taken my advice to-day, we would have had one hundred pesos. On your account we are without a cuarto.”

Tarsilo did not reply, but, with wide-open eyes, looked around him as if in search of some one.

”There he is talking with Pedro,” added Bruno. ”He is giving him money--what a lot of money!”

Tarsilo remained silent and thoughtful. With the arm of his camisa, he wiped away the sweat which formed in drops on his forehead.

”Brother,” said Bruno, ”I am decided, even if you are not. The lasak ought to win and we ought not to lose the opportunity. I want to bet on the next fight. What does it matter? Thus, we will avenge our father.”

”Wait!” said Tarsilo to him, and looked him in the eyes. Both were pale. ”I am with you. You are right. We will avenge our father.”

He stopped, however, and again wiped away the perspiration.

”Why do you stop?” asked Bruno impatiently.

”Do you know what fight is the next one? Is it worth the trouble?”

”What! Haven't you heard? Captain Tiago's lasak against Captain Basilio's bulik. According to the run of luck, the lasak ought to win.”

”Ah! The lasak. I would bet ... but let us make sure first.”

Bruno made a gesture of impatience, but followed his brother. The latter looked the rooster over carefully, thought about it, debated with himself and asked a few questions. The unfortunate fellow was in doubt. Bruno was nervous and looked at him angrily.

”Why, don't you see that wide scale which he has there near the spur? Do you see those feet? What more do you want? Look at those legs. Stretch out his wings. And that broken scale on top of that wide one, and that double one?”

Tarsilo did not hear him, he kept on examining the c.o.c.k. The rattle of silver coins reached his ears.

”Let us see the bulik now,” said he, in a choking voice.

Bruno stamped the ground with his feet, grated his teeth, but obeyed his brother.

They approached the other group. There they were arming the c.o.c.k, they were selecting gaffs for him, and the expert, in fitting them to the rooster's legs, was preparing a piece of red silk. He waxed it and rubbed it over his knee a number of times.

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