he previous bull, the crowd
commented. "It's the last of the bison!"

"He's poiple! Lookit! Poiple!"

"The bull of the woods!"

"Howya like 'im, Fergus?"

Killer Fergus posed behind the barrier and studied his specialty, an odd
bull. Two stickers, Neel and Tomas, flourished capes to test the bull's
charge, with Neel chanting, "Come on, bull! Come on, bull! Come on!
Bull, bull, bull!"

Moe did not charge. He moved, in a speculative walk, toward the chanting
Neel who tantalized with the cape and retreated with shuffling steps.
The charge, when it came, occurred almost too fast for sight. Neel
wriggled on the horns, struck the sand, and the horns lifted him again.
He smashed against the barrier. Tomas threw his cape over the bull's
face. The left horn pinned the cape to Tomas's naked chest over the
heart.

Moe retired to the center of the ring and bellowed at the crowd, which,
delirious from seeing human blood, applauded. Blood covered Moe's horns,
dripped through the long hair on his neck, and trickled down between his
eyes.

Quavering helpers removed the bodies. The first lancer, livid and
trembling, rode a blindfolded horse into the ring. "He'll fix this
horse!" the crowd slavered. "We'll see guts this time!"

Moe charged. The lancer backed his mount against the barrier and gripped
his weapon, a stout pike. Sand sprayed like water as Moe swerved. On the
left side of the horse, away from the menacing pike, Moe reared. The
lancer left the saddle. A tangle of naked limbs thrashed across the
wooden fence and thudded against the wall of the stands.

Twenty-five thousand people held their breaths. The blindfolded horse
waited with dilated nostrils and every muscle vibrating in terror. Moe
produced a long red tongue and licked the horse's jaw.

Fergus dispersed the tableau. Red-haired, lean, and scarred with many
past gorings, the popular killer stalked across the sand dragging his
cape and roaring incomprehensible challenges. In the stands, the cheer
leaders of the Fergus Fanclub lead a welcoming yell. "Yeaaaa, Fergus!
Fergus! Fergus! Rah, rah, rah!"

Moe wandered through the helpers trying to distract him from the horse
and looked at the killer. Fergus stamped his foot, shook the cape, and
called, "Bull! Come on! Charge!" Moe completely circled the killer, who
retired in disgust when another lancer rode into the ring. "Stick him
good!" Fergus directed.

The pike pointed at the great muscles of Moe's back, as