The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols Page A

stump beside the front door, he drank only one cup of coffee and forewent his customary wood-chopping session. In its stead he hastily gummed down two Piggly-Wiggly tortillas wrapped around some tiny Vienna sausages, made sure a full book of food stamps was stashed safely in his inside breast pocket, and then from a peg driven into the mud wall over his bed he removed a cracked leather gun belt and holster, which he buckled around his skinny waist.
    From a tin box on whose cover fading blue asters had been painted Amarante then removed a well-oiled revolver, an old, very heavy Colt Peacemaker. His father had given him the gun eighty years ago: it was the weapon he’d carried as sheriff of Milagro. Amarante had never discharged it at anybody; in fact, the gun had rarely been used, even for target practice. But it had always been, and yet remained, his most cherished possession.
    The old man fitted this monumental weapon into the holster, made certain his sheriff’s badge was pinned correctly to his suit lapel, and hit the road.
    Shoulders hunched, leaning way forward, Amarante stomped with a rickety bowlegged gait along the potholed dirt path, eyes fixed straight ahead, absolutely determined—once in motion—to let nothing break his feeble rhythms until he had arrived where he planned to go.
    He stopped once, however, near Joe’s beanfield, swayed uncertainly for a moment before leaving the road, climbed up the Roybal ditch bank, and carefully picked his way over stones and dry weeds to where water left the ditch and entered the field.
    He waved at Joe, who was leaning against his shovel, and Joe called, “Howdy, Chief. What’s with the pistol this morning?”
    Grinning toothlessly and gesturing with his hand, Amarante offered Joe a shot of cheap brandy. So Joe splashed over and fastened onto the bottle, tipping it to his lips while the old man squinted his eyes and watched eagerly, nodding happily as the young man drank.
    â€œAi, Chihuahua!” Joe said. “What is this crap, burro piss?”
    Amarante cackled and sucked off a swallow for himself, then patted his gut. “It’s good for you,” he said. “Keeps you warm.”
    â€œSo how come the hardware?” Joe asked again.
    Winking conspiratorially, Amarante put his bottle away and laid a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of this field.”
    â€œSure, you do that for me, Chief.” Gently, Joe cuffed the old man’s face. “You and me together, friend, we’ll keep those bastards at bay, qué no?”
    Abruptly, Amarante plunged toward the road. But he halted a couple of times, and, looking back, muttered, “I’ll be right back…”
    In town a few minutes later, instead of heading as usual for the bar, he hoofed it directly into Rael’s General Store and, pulling the gun from its holster, laid the weapon atop the rubber change mat on the counter in front of Nick Rael.
    â€œHello, Pop,” Nick said, wondering, what in hell is this old looney up to now?
    â€œWhat kind of bullets does this take?” Amarante asked. “I forget.”
    After Nick had turned the gun admiringly over in his hands once or twice, he set it back on the rubber mat again.
    â€œWhy buy bullets?”
    Amarante was a little confused; he could hardly hear anyway. “What kind of cartucho?” he asked again. “I want to buy some shells.”
    â€œSure.” Nick swung out from behind the counter, ambling across the store to his ammo shelves. “But what for?”
    Following Nick, the old man watched with interest as the storekeeper, after searching among the ammunition for a moment, selected a box of .45 shells, which he slapped into Amarante’s hands. Back at the counter the old man asked, “How much?”
    â€œThree dollars and twenty-nine cents, plus fourteen pennies for the