The second morning of the hunt, Tiburcio and I singled out a big black bull about a mile from the river.  I had not yet been convinced that I could not make an effective shot from in front, and, dismounting, attracted the bull’s attention and fired.  The shot did not even stagger him and he charged us; our horses avoided his rush, and he started for the river.  Sheathing my carbine, I took down my rope and caught him before he had gone a hundred yards.  As I threw my horse on his haunches to receive the shock, the weight and momentum of the bull dragged my double-cinched saddle over my horse’s head and sent me sprawling on the ground.  In wrapping the loose end of the rope around the pommel of the saddle, I had given it a half hitch, and as I came to my feet my saddle and carbine were bumping merrily along after Toro.  Regaining my horse, I soon overtook Tiburcio, who was attempting to turn the animal back from the river, and urged him to “tie on,” but he hesitated, offering me his horse instead.  As there was no time to waste, we changed horses like relay riders.  I soon overtook the animal and made a successful cast, catching the bull by the front feet.  I threw Tiburcio’s horse, like a wheeler, back on his haunches, and, on bringing the rope taut, fetched Toro to his knees; but with the strain the half-inch manila rope snapped at the pommel like a twine string.  Then we were at our wit’s end, the bull lumbering away with the second rope noosed over one fore foot, and leaving my saddle far in the rear.  But after a moment’s hesitation my partner and I doubled on him, to make trial of our guns, Tiburcio having a favorite old musket while I had only my six-shooter.  Tiburcio, on my stripped horse, overtook the bull first, and attempted to turn him, but El Toro was not to be stopped.  On coming up myself, I tried the same tactics, firing several shots into the ground in front of him but without deflecting the enraged bull from his course.  Then I unloosed a Mexican blanket from Tiburcio’s saddle, and flaunting it in his face, led him like a matador inviting a charge.  This held his attention until Tiburcio, gaining courage, dashed past him from the rear and planted a musket ball behind the base of his ear, and the patriarch succumbed.

After the first few days’ work, we found that the most vulnerable spot was where the spinal cord connects with the base of the brain.  A well-directed shot at this point, even from a six-shooter, never failed to bring Toro to grass; and some of us became so expert that we could deliver this favorite shot from a running horse.  The trouble was to get the bull to run evenly.  That was one thing he objected to, and yet unless he did we could not advantageously attack him with a six-shooter.  Many of these old bulls were surly in disposition, and even when they did run, there was no telling what moment they would sulk, stop without an instant’s notice, and attempt to gore a passing horse.