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The capadero, or capeman, has a more dangerous office. He and his colleagues start an afternoon's entertainment, luring the bull out of his pen by waving before him crimson capes. Later, while dismounted picadors are getting over the fence, the capaderos engage the bull's attention until the coming of the banderilleros.
The latter are exceedingly dexterous fellows. Armed only with gaudy paper-tailed darts, they pose before the bovine onrush, or themselves rush at the bull, jabbing the darts* into his carcass in pairs so as to pick out an approved pattern on and about the withers.
Thus embellished, the bull is now ready for the espada, or matador; the swordsman, the killer, the hero of the day. It is to this final role that the apprentice aspires. Sometimes, through sheer braggadocio, the merest man may spring to fame overnight by leaping down into an arena if some emergency should arise at this crucial juncture of a fight. That is seldom seen, however.
The haughty man of the hour turns his back on the bull, receives his sword and muleta (a brilliant scarlet cloth hung from a short stick) and addresses himself to the president of the fight. He asks permission to commit tauricide and, that received, next dedicates the animal to a portion of the arena, or to a lady, or to a wealthy patron, by tossing his hat into the stand. When the hat comes back, its owner is confident of finding therein some costly gift.
A flourish, a bow, and the hat is swept on again. A cool survey of the arena, and the hero steps jauntily towards his victim. He arranges his muleta as he goes, balancing his sword ' above it with arch precision. Grace is everything. The watching thousands bate their breath to see such bravery in a mincing mayfly. He makes it seem the merest trifle to approach a snorting, bloody-eyed monster where it stands at bay, to halt six paces off and pose a second, waiting for the animal to come into position; to rise on tiptoe and make a dainty death-charge, to strike home lightning-wise between the shoulders, step aside, doff the hat and pose for plaudits.
Some heroes court the danger even more daringly. Antonio Montes, who was killed in 1907, let the bull come to him for the coup de grace. Captain Canedo, who is still alive, kills a! rejon —that is, he rides first as a picador, then dismounts and finishes his job as an espada. And there is Gaona, of Mexico,* who fights without a muleta, relying solely upon the suppleness of his hips to elude the bull's furious charge. It is Gaona's boast that the horns seldom miss him by so much as the breadth of a finger.
For the skilled matador, there is not only wealth (in 1902, Mazzantini and his men cleared some $40,000 in three months in Mexico), but public honor and license such as is unknown even by ball-players and pugilists in the U. S. Wherever they go in public, they are known by their gorgeous dress (black broadcloth, scarlet sash, white hose, shiny pumps). It is an honor to sit with them in cafes, to speak with them or be owed money by them. After a fight, the town they are in is theirs— wine and women complete.