Read Online The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols - Free Book Online

not much to do now, the way I see it, sir. Just lay low and see what develops, is my motto.”
    â€œRight. I’ll keep in touch, Bernie. Good-bye.”
    â€œThat guy—” Emerson Lapp cast his eyes to the ceiling. “It walks, it talks, it carries a real gun, so it calls itself a sheriff,” he groaned sarcastically. “What did he have to say: ‘Let’s just lay low for the time being and see what happens,’ I’ll bet.”
    â€œDon’t be nasty, Em.” And, as Devine dialed another number, he told his secretary, “See if you can’t drum up Horsethief Shorty and Jerry G., okay? I think Jerry G.’s down in the pony corral with some kids. Shorty might be over in the bunkhouse, it’s his afternoon off. Tell them to come up for a short talk. And Jim Quintana, too—is Jim around? Hello, Harlan—?”
    Emerson Lapp started to say, “Jim Quintana’s out with that Kildare party from Lubbock—” but cut it short on a brief hand signal from his boss, who was talking to Harlan Betchel, manager of both the Pilar Café and the Harlan Betchel (Buck-A-Fish) Trout Pond behind the café.
    Glumly, the secretary nodded so long to Flossie and left the room.
    â€œLook, Harlan, a matter’s come up that I think we should discuss. Do you think you could drive up here in, say, about ten minutes, for a short meeting at the ranch? You can leave Betty in charge. It won’t take long.”
    â€œSure, Mr. Devine. I could do that except the missus has the car, and she’s down in Chamisaville doing the weekly shopping at Safeway.”
    â€œYou can go over to the Forest Service office and hitch a ride with either Carl, or—what’s that new man’s name?”
    â€œYou must be talking about Floyd Cowlie, sir.”
    â€œRight, Floyd Cowlie. Tell me, is their truck outside the office, can you see?”
    â€œYup. Just sitting out there, Mr. Devine. In fact, only ten minutes ago they pulled in from having it serviced at Jake’s Enco in Doña Luz. It had a leak in the oil pan they picked up on the Little Baldy road yest—”
    â€œThen you can ride up with them, Harlan. I’m going to call them right now, so why don’t you hustle over there pronto?”
    â€œSure thing. Right away.”
    Devine dialed the Forest Service office. Carl Abeyta answered.
    â€œCarl, this is Ladd Devine. Right—thanks. Look, I’d like both you and Floyd to come up to my place right away for a short meeting. It’s about that Joe Mondragón beanfield on the west side. Harlan Betchel’s going to catch a ride with you boys because Greta is down in Chamisaville with the car. I’ll expect to see you soon—”
    â€œWhatever you say, sir. We’ll be right over.”
    After that, while his wife pensively sucked on a sour lemon, Devine called the Enchanted Land Motel manager, Peter Hirsshorn, who promised to come right up, and then he dialed long distance to his lawyer and partner in crime, Peter’s brother Jim. Briefly he outlined to the lawyer the situation insofar as he understood it, and asked Hirsshorn what his initial and instinctive gut reaction was.
    â€œI dunno, Ladd. I’m not worried, if that’s what you’re after. Both of us have lived here all our lives, you know. We understand these people. You can probably smoke out the situation as well, if not better, than anyone else around there. My initial, gut-level response would be to keep close tabs on the situation, on Joe Mondragón, but for the time being stay cool, don’t push the panic button. I’m assuming what he wants is to have his action legitimized by some kind of nervous or hysterical or authoritarian attention. So don’t play his hand, Ladd, and I kind of feel the whole thing will die down.”
    â€œThanks, Jim. Got to sign off now, here come Shorty and Jerry G.”
    Jerry Grindstaff, a foreman of