Someone Like You (Night Riders) (27 page)

If he could move out of the center of the ring, perhaps the bulls would see each other and forget about him. When he saw a third bull emerge from its pen, pinning him at the vortex of a lethal triangle, he was certain someone was trying to kill him.

A hush had fallen over the spectators. A child raised his voice, only to be cut off in midsentence. It was as if the whole world had stopped long enough to turn its attention on him, to watch with gaping mouths, waiting to see what would happen, certain of the inevitable outcome.

Rafe didn’t move. He knew as long as he remained motionless, the bulls couldn’t be sure he was a real person. But that strategy wouldn’t work for long. Any moment an errant breeze could carry his scent to one of the bulls, and it would charge. Any movement would draw one or both of the other bulls into the fray. How was he going to get out of this alive?

He’d once heard someone say you could stare down a bull, but what did you do when you faced three? He racked his brain, trying to think of something he could use to distract the bulls, but he’d removed his vest when he mounted the bronc, leaving just the red shirt Luis had insisted he wear.

The red shirt!

He could use that as a cape if he could get it off before one of the bulls charged. It had at least six buttons and was securely tucked into his pants. Did he have enough time?

Being careful not to move too quickly, he brought his right hand up to the first button and undid it. At the same time he slowly turned his head enough so that, using his peripheral vision, he was able to see all three bulls. The third bull was more interested in the other two bulls than in Rafe. The second bull was distracted by the crowds. The first bull had stopped pawing the ground, but its eyes were focused intently on Rafe.

Rafe undid a second button.

The first bull grunted, exhaled through its nostrils, and lowered its head. Saliva dripped from its lips and the spear imbedded in its shoulder quivered. His action caught the attention of the second bull, which also focused on Rafe. It snorted and stomped the ground with a single hoof, causing the lance buried deep in its shoulder to wave about, undoubtedly causing even greater pain. Rafe could see no spear in the third bull. He hoped that would make it less dangerous than the first two, but he didn’t need anyone to tell him that wouldn’t matter if he didn’t manage to get past the others.

He undid a third button.

The first bull raised its head and sent forth a full-throated bellow that seemed to shake the ground. That brought the other bulls to attention, ready for a challenge from any direction. The first bull bellowed again, pawed at the ground, and lowered its head, shaking it from side to side and flinging saliva in all directions. Its actions spurred the second bull to deliver an answering bellow before lowering its head and pawing the ground.

Rafe didn’t bother to check on the third bull before undoing the fourth button.

Noise from the crowd penetrated his consciousness. He could hear men shouting and had a vague impression of running feet. There was no sound of a horse entering the
ring, no picador coming to his rescue. The first bull sent a blast of air through its nostrils, lowered its head still more, and charged.

Rafe ripped open the shirt, sending the last two buttons flying. He jerked it out of his pants and pulled it off only a split second before the charging bull reached him. With no time to unfurl the shirt and use it as a target, Rafe threw himself to the side just as the bull thundered by. Using the agility bred in it through generations, the bull threw his head to the side and hooked the tail of the shirt with his horn as he passed.

The shirt was Rafe’s only weapon, his only means of defense. As puny as it was, he couldn’t lose it. Even as he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, Rafe tightened his grip on the shirt. He heard it rip, prayed the tear wouldn’t leave him with a scrap while the majority decorated the bull’s horns. Both hands still gripping the shirt tightly, he came to his knees as the bull’s horn ripped free of the tail of the shirt.

The sound of pounding hooves made him look up in time to see the second bull charging. Rafe wasn’t sure how he got to his feet in time to face the second bull, but he managed to wave the shirt at the charging animal. It passed so close by, Rafe could feel the heat of its breath, could smell the odor of manure that clung to it.

The bull’s furious charge carried it well past Rafe, but Rafe barely had time to regain his balance and face the first bull as it attacked again. He was caught between the two bulls. Only great luck would enable him to continue to face one at a time. That luck would vanish entirely if the third bull decided to charge. His only alternative was to get the first two bulls to attack at the same time from opposite directions. If they crashed into each other—it would be even better if they started to fight—he would have a chance to get them between him and the third bull. That might give him enough time to reach the edge of the arena and vault over the wall to safety.

He was vaguely aware of the sounds of movement outside the ring. Some of the spectators were shouting advice. Why hadn’t he been interested in bullfighting when he was a young boy? Then he might have had some notion of what to do as he struggled to evade one attack after another.

Remaining in the center of the ring wasn’t an option. Somehow he had to attract the attention of the first two bulls without drawing the third into the conflict. Waving the shirt in front of him, Rafe moved from the center of the ring in hopes of confusing the bulls and causing them to wait before charging.

It didn’t quite work that way. He barely had time to spin away from one bull before the other was upon him. The second bull’s horn caught his pants, ripped through the material to the flesh underneath, and spun him around and off his feet. Dragging his body up on his knees, he looked up just in time to see the third bull lower its head and charge.

The pain in his hip wouldn’t let him stand and deploy the cape. He had to hope the bull was charging so hard, it wouldn’t have time to change course when Rafe threw himself to one side at the last second—if he was able to judge when that last fraction of a second arrived. He didn’t have time to determine the location of the first two bulls. He’d have to hope they would be distracted by the unexpected arrival of the third bull.

Rafe owed his survival to the help of an unknown confederate. Some object sailed through the air and struck the bull on the shoulder. Thinking it was being attacked by an unseen assailant, the bull skidded to a halt and whirled to face its challenger. Despite the pain from his injured hip, Rafe got to his feet in time to see the first two bulls eyeing him from opposite sides. Grabbing what might be his only chance to escape without further injury, he waved the shirt, hoping to incite them to attack before the third bull could refocus its attention on Rafe.

He got his wish. Both charged at the same time. Now the
problem became how to move his injured body out of the way in time to keep from being crushed between the two animals. The few seconds it took the bulls to reach him felt like the oddest moments of his life. One instant the bulls were moving in slow motion, getting only a little bit closer, and the next they were charging toward him at an unnerving speed. Abandoning any attempt to control the collision, Rafe tossed his shirt into the air and staggered to one side.

He could feel the concussion of the air against his skin caused by the impact of more than a ton of flesh as the two bulls came together. The impact was so powerful, it snapped one horn off the first bull and sent it spiraling through the air. Both bulls slumped to the ground, dazed and unmoving.

Rafe didn’t have time to congratulate himself on his success. Finding only thin air rather than an opponent, the third bull had refocused its attention. His shirt impaled on the second bull’s horns, Rafe took up the only defensive position he had. He limped around to the far side of the fallen bulls and hoped the third wouldn’t leap across their bodies.

The pounding of hooves behind him sent his hopes plummeting. He had no defense against a fourth bull. He might be able to pull his shirt off the second bull’s horns, but that would only give him a short respite. When he turned, he was stunned to see Broc racing toward him astride one of the picador’s horses. Limping toward his friend, Rafe caught Broc’s outstretched hand when he brought his horse to a standstill and somehow managed to mount behind Broc.

“What took you so long?” Rafe asked. “I’m out of shirts.”

Broc’s chuckle was more a release of tension than amusement. “I’m sure it seemed like hours to you, but you weren’t out there more than a few minutes.”

Finally safe enough to stop worrying about the bulls, Rafe looked around to see a half dozen riders with spears enter the arena. Thick pads over their mounts’ bodies protected them from possible attack.

“I don’t think they’ll be having any bullfights today,”
Broc said. “Two of those bulls aren’t in any condition to fight. How did you get them to charge at the same time?”

“Pure luck.” He put his arms around Broc and held on. He felt so weak, he was afraid he’d fall off.

One thought prevented him from feeling a complete sense of relief at having narrowly escaped death. Someone wanted him dead badly enough to risk releasing three bulls with hundreds of spectators watching. Having failed, would his enemy abandon subtlety and ambush him or attempt to kill him outright? The only person he could think of who would want him dead was Laveau.

The moment he emerged from the arena, people surrounded Rafe to congratulate him on his narrow escape, compliment him on his strategy, say what a strange accident it had been. Rafe wanted to get back to his hotel and take care of his wounded hip. He didn’t think he’d suffered much more than broken skin, but it hurt like hell. Besides, he wasn’t accustomed to appearing in public without a shirt. He felt naked.

“Rafe! Rafe!”

Turning in the direction of the voice, Rafe saw Luis and Maria making their way through the crowd. Dolores followed them closely with Laveau trailing at a distance.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to fight the bulls,” Luis exclaimed when he got within shouting distance.

“It wasn’t planned,” Rafe said.

“Who do you think arranged that?” Broc asked in a low voice. “Laveau?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He’d be happy to see us both dead. Maybe he’s the one who shot me.”

“Laveau is smart enough to have pulled off the release of the bulls, but he wouldn’t have wanted it to look like an accident. He’d want the rest of the Night Riders to know he’d done it.”

There wasn’t time to say any more. Maria and Luis had
reached them, bringing a doctor who ordered Rafe to accompany him to a tent where he would check his injury. Rafe would have refused, but he knew that would upset Maria.

“Is he badly injured?” Maria asked the doctor.

“I haven’t had time to look yet,” the doctor replied. “He still has his pants on.”

Many of his fellow soldiers had been wounded during the war and suffered the indignity of having to undress or lie naked before strangers. Having to bare his butt with practically everyone he knew on the other side of a cloth partition was just about more than Rafe could handle.

“Can I come in with you?” Luis asked.

“No!” Rafe, Maria, and Dolores responded at the same time.

“Oh.” It took Luis a moment to digest their refusal.

“Get those pants off,” the doctor ordered. “I can’t see through cloth.”

“Maria said those bulls weren’t supposed to be in the ring,” Luis said to Rafe through the partition. “Did you ask for them?”

“No.”

“Laveau said you were a very good bullfighter. I thought you must have done it a lot.”

“The wound doesn’t look too bad,” the doctor said, “but it’s going to hurt for a while.”

“Laveau threw a rock at that bull. Mama said you owe him for saving your life. Mama said he’s a hero.”

Rafe locked glances with Broc, who had accompanied Rafe behind the partition.

“I refuse to be turned into anything so hackneyed as a hero,” Laveau remarked in his languid style. “I won’t pretend to be fond of you, but I would prefer to see you expire in a fair fight.”

Laveau’s comment sounded genuine. Rafe wondered who
had
arranged to have the bulls escape.

“I hope you’ll change your mind about letting Luis stay with me,” Dolores said.

“Don’t bother him with that now,” Laveau said. “The man has been injured.”

Rafe would force himself to thank Laveau for distracting the bull…if he didn’t choke on the words.

“I ought to put a dressing on the wound,” the doctor said.

“I don’t need one.”

“If I don’t, the wound will weep and soak through your clothes. After that it will dry and stick to your clothes. You won’t be able to remove your pants without ripping off the scab.”

“Dress it,” Broc said. “I’ll make him lie still. Remember what you said to me when the doc was trying to put my face back together?”

Rafe had forced Broc to let the doctors save what they could of his face. He’d changed the dressing himself, ignoring Broc’s protests that all he wanted to do was die.

“Let the doctor dress the wound,” said Maria. “You have to set a good example for Luis.”

Resigned, Rafe nodded to the doctor. How had he ended up being the one to set a good example for Luis?

“As soon as the doctor is finished with you, we’re going back to the hotel,” Maria informed him. “I’ll decide later whether you’re up to going out for dinner. I don’t want you to do too much and come down with a fever.”

“Listen to the lady,” the doctor said.

Broc chuckled. “I’ve been telling him that for days.”

Rafe groaned inwardly. Everybody was trying to domesticate him, and he wasn’t even married.

The man stormed around the confines of the small room, raging at fate, which had decreed Rafe would escape still another trap set for him
.

“Damn it to hell!” he shouted. “How can one person have that
much luck! God must be watching over the bastard. He should have been dead several times over.”