The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols

highway.”
    â€œSo—?”
    â€œNone of the land over there that used to have irrigation rights has irrigation rights anymore. I don’t know the whole complicated story of how it happened, but it’s got to do with the 1935 water compact.”
    â€œSounds to me like the ditch boss, the one you people call the major domo, ought to handle this kind of thing,” Koontz said. “What could we do about it?”
    â€œMaybe you don’t understand.” Bernabé scratched behind one ear. “It’s not like he’s just irrigating this little beanfield. There’s a lot of people in Milagro, you know, who aren’t too happy with the way things are changing there, or down in Chamisaville, or all around the north. Up in Milagro—you’ve been along the Milagro–García spur, haven’t you? You’ve seen the houses people used to live in out there, the old farmhouses, and all those fields?”
    â€œThat’s a ghost town, man. Only that crazy old fart—what’s his name—the little waffle with the badge and the suit, lives in those ruins—”
    â€œAmarante Córdova.”
    â€œYeah. He’s the only one lives over there.”
    Bernabé drifted away from the counter over to the door, where he stood, hands behind his back, staring at the highway. The thought crossed his mind that he ought to handle this thing himself, because after all he more or less understood and had sympathy for the situation. On the other hand, if he handled the situation himself, suppose he butchered the job (a likely supposition), what then? At least if he gave it to the state cops he was off the hook.
    Facing Koontz and Emilio Cisneros again, he said, “The thing is, irrigating that field is symbolic, the way I see it. People are bitter over how they lost their land and their water rights. And this sort of act, small as it may seem, could touch off something bigger.”
    Koontz said, “What do you want us to do?”
    â€œI don’t know. Frankly, I don’t know what to do about it. It’s not like you can just go in and arrest him or fuck up the beanfield or something. I mean, this is too close to everybody—”
    Koontz frowned. “I’m not sure I understand, Bernie.”
    â€œWhy don’t you talk with somebody else,” the sheriff suggested. “Talk with Bruno Martínez when he comes in. Better yet, get in touch with Trucho down in the capital. This is his sector, isn’t it? Tell him to call me.”
    â€œFor what? For a little loudmouthed troublemaker who’s trickling a couple gallons of water into a crummy beanfield?”
    Bernabé mumbled, “Ah, screw it then, I guess I’ll handle it myself,” and walked out to his truck.
    Emilio Cisneros said, “If I was you, Bill, I’d call Trucho.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I think he’d want to know. I don’t think you really understand what Joe Mondragón is doing.”
    â€œYou honest to God think I oughtta call Trucho?” Koontz asked uncertainly.
    â€œSure. The least he might do is talk with the state engineer. You let Bernie Montoya go back up there and handle something as sensitive as this on his own and he’s sure to blow it badly. That sheriff is so stupid his boots were on the wrong feet, did you notice?”
    â€œOkay. So maybe I’ll call Trucho, then…”
    Xavier Trucho, the third highest ranking cop in the state, in charge of the entire northern sector, said, “Repeat the whole thing to me again, Bill. Slowly. I want everything you can remember that honky-tonk Cisco Kid told you.”
    â€œIt ain’t much,” Koontz said, suddenly nervous about the beanfield. “There’s just this little guy, Joe Mondragón, who’s cutting water into some deserted field isn’t supposed to have water rights on the west side of the highway, in that ghost town part of