There was a sheen of blood all down his flank.

Blood pumped regularly from between the horse’s front legs.

The blood was hot on his knuckles, and he was on top of the bull.

Then he gestured at the crowd, his hand warm from the bull blood.

The blood had flowed down into a pool where his body sagged the bunk.

Manuel noted the fresh blood shining down the black shoulder and dripping down the bull’s leg.

The edge of the cape was wet with blood where it had swept along the bull’s back as he went by.

The bull had smelled the blood of the dead horse and ripped into the canvas-cover with his horns.

Villalta, his hand up at the crowd and the bull roaring blood, looking straight at Villalta and his legs caving.

Manuel noticed the way the banderillos hung down on his left shoulder and the steady sheen of blood from Zurito’s pic-ing.

He was up at once, but far out across the sand Manuel and Zurito saw the shine of the pumping flow of blood, smooth against the black of the bull’s shoulder.

Then Gilford rolled over to one side off my old man and got up and started to run on three legs with his off hoof dangling and there was my old man laying there on the grass flat out with his face up and blood all over the side of his head.