The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols Page B

governor, equals three-forty-three altogether,” Nick said bemusedly. “What are you gonna do, Pop, go hunting for bear?”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œThree-forty-three!” Nick fairly shouted into his ear.
    Grinning, Amarante produced the food stamp book and, while Nick looked on incredulously, painstakingly tore out four one-dollar stamps which he laid carefully on the counter.
    Nick pushed them back toward the old geezer, shaking his head. “Hey, Grandpa,” he explained. “You can’t buy bullets with food stamps. You got to pay me money.”
    Puzzled, Amarante held up the stamps. “What’s the matter with these? They’re no good?”
    â€œThey’re for buying food, ” Nick rasped. “You can’t use food stamps for bullets. You need money. Real dollars.”
    Amarante scrutinized the pieces of paper in his hand. At length he said, “This is money.”
    â€œFor food, yeah,” Nick sighed. “They’re only good for food, man.”
    â€œI don’t want food. Only these bullets.”
    â€œThen put those food stamps away and gimme three dollars and forty-three cents,” the storekeeper said.
    The old man laid the food stamps on the counter again. “This is the same as money,” he explained.
    â€œAw, come on, Pop. You know as well as I know that there’s some things you can’t buy with food stamps. You can’t buy dog food or beer or nonedible stuff like shampoo or toothpaste or razor blades.”
    Smiling, Amarante picked up the shells and dropped the box in his pocket.
    â€œHey wait a minute—” Nick started to grab the old man’s arm, but let go quickly. “Money,” he said, moving his lips exaggeratedly as if talking to a lip reader. “Not food stamps, you dumb old coot—money. I need money for those shells.”
    Once again, Amarante nodded toward the food stamps on the counter, hoisted his gun and jammed it carefully into the holster, touched the front brim of his rumpled hat by way of saying good day, and lurched off.
    Cursing as he did so, Nick snatched up the food stamps and slapped them into the space under the black plastic cash pan in the till.
    Amarante teetered into the Frontier Bar, saluted his comrade, Tranquilino Jeantete, tugged himself onto a stool, placed the pistol and the box of shells on the bar, and, while Tranquilino watched, he slowly and very carefully loaded the gun.
    â€œWhat do you want to load a gun for?” the bartender asked. “Life isn’t hard enough, you’re out looking for more trouble?”
    His feeble hand resting lightly atop the mammoth gun lying on the bar, Amarante said, “Sometimes it’s necessary to carry a gun.”
    â€œI bet you can’t even pull the trigger,” Tranquilino replied petulantly. “You’re not even as heavy as a little bag of dried-up aspen leaves.”
    â€œI can shoot this gun.”
    â€œAnd what could you hit—a dead elephant from two feet away?”
    â€œI can shoot this gun.”
    â€œYour brains are scrambled,” Tranquilino said. “The defunct ones from the camposanto must be dancing around in there. You’re going to give all us rotten old bastards a bad name.”
    â€œSometimes a man should carry a gun.”
    â€œWho do you think you are?” the bartender accused. “Pancho Villa? The Lone Ranger?”
    Offended by his friend’s bad taste, Amarante looked stonily straight ahead, his wrinkled old hand still lying firmly atop the gun.
    â€œPut the safety on, at least,” Tranquilino finally grumbled in a more gentle, friendlier tone. “I don’t want any bullets flying around my bar.”
    Refusing even to acknowledge that he’d heard, Amarante remained stiff backed, his shriveled sunken lips as tight as he could make them.
    After a long silence, Tranquilino creaked onto his feet and fetched two glasses, filling both