junkyard hulks, passed noisih’ in thernnorthbound lane, and a carefullv parkedrnsedan burned quietlv b itself at therncurb along the main thoroughfare. InrnAgua Prieta young men with vacantrnfaces leaned on iron lamp posts risingrnfrom narrow sidewalks built on highrnstepped curbs above drains clogged byrngarbage. Eighteen years ago three membersrnof a Douglas ranching familyrnnamed Hanigan, the father and twornsons, were charged with the kidnappingrnand torture of three mojados who hadrnventured across the border in search ofrnwork. Public feeling in Douglas wasrnstrong for the Hanigans, while in AguarnPrieta citizens organized a bocott of thernDouglas merchants. After the Hanigansrnwere acquitted on all counts in CochisernCounty Court, Anglos were afraid tornshow their faces in the Mexican city.rn”Where arc you from?” the UnitedrnStates Customs man asked. “What dornyou do up there? Are you a rancher?”rnHe waved on two old women and a familvrncrowding behind, all of them wavingrntheir MICA cards. When the- hadrnpassed through the inspector, speakingrndeliberately and in a formal oice, said,rn”The problem is that the’ breed be’ondrnthe capacity to support themselves. Demographicsrnare going to sink us all. I likernthese people okay, but the ‘re not mvrnpeople. I’his is a war going on downrnhere, and there’s going to be a whiternbacklash in a few vears. —^Yes, es: go onrnthrough. . . . Sec that old ladv?” Hernpointed to a toothless crone carrying arnshopping bag on each arm. “She’s probablvrnresponsible for 30 grandchildren.rnI’m 40 vears old, grew up in SouthernrnCalifornia where there were hardly amrnHispanics at all. Now the place is overrunrnwith them. And it makes me furious:rnI resent that I should be responsiblernfor all these people. ‘I’hese small-townrnpeasants have no education, no generalrnknowledge, no English. And they don’trnassimilate. They can’t support a wifernand six kids on seasonal agriculturalrnvork; I don’t know what they’re thinkingrnabout. They say the Catholic Churchrnhas got them h the neck; I suppose the-rndo.”rnDating from 1880, Bisbee is a monumentrnto the times when Americansrnknew how to lay out a town and buildrnbuildings having dignity, solidity, andrnalso to the heedless destructiveness ofrnthose times; the livid pit from whichrngenerations of Bisbeeans extracted orernfor the smelters of Douglas remains anrnopen wound in the surroundmg desertrnhills. A lead story in the Bisbee Observerrnconcerned a Ms. Alexis Claire—arnlocal trac] agent arrested for allegedlyrnharassing a Border Patrol agent as he wasrnattempting to interrogate a CentralrnAmerican client who wished to purchaserna Greyhound Bus ticket. Missing fromrnthe reporter’s account was an explanationrnof how Ms. Claire’s face, pictured inrnthe paper, had failed to turn the offendingrnman to limestone. I drove pastrnher travel office and the huge peacernsymbol formed from a map of the worldrnhanging behind the plate glass window,rnand on to Naco: a hamlet located a fewmilesrnwest of Bisbee on the internationalrnborder where igilantcs from Tucsonrnused to take shots at illegals crossingrninto the United States. The outskirts ofrntown were festooned with trash, thernshoulders of the highway littered withrnburst bags of garbage tossed from passingrncars for the wind and the starvingrndogs to tear apart. On X’lain Streetrnall the commercial buildings except forrna couple of bars were closed, and thernonlv people in the street were a group ofrnMexican b()s who. after clearingrnthemselves with L’nited States Customsrnand hnmigration, pushed their jalopyrnthrough the port of cntr- onto Americanrnsoil and stood grinning and waving torntheir friends in Mexico as if crossing thernborder were entertainment for them, orrnsome sort of joke.rnhi the desert north of Bisbee Irnstopped for an old woman in a blackrnraincoat who stood beside the road holdingrna can of beer. “I’m going to llicson,”rnshe said through the window. “I’m goingrnto Nogales. I can take ()u as far asrn’lombstone.” The woman’s face was arnblearv ruin, her string’ white hairrnstreaked obseenelv witli ellow. “Thankrnvou,” she said, drinking beer. “Are vourna real cowboy?” “No.” “I have to go tornjail,” she explained, “for six months.”rn”I’m sorry to hear it.” I let her out at thernjunction and went to have a look at whatrnremains of the OK Corral. “Well, that’srnTombstone.” “Yeah. Now, where’s therncemeterv?” Where a century beforerngunfighters blazed away at one another,rnpotbellied old men from Roekford, Illinois,rnshuffled about like Weeble-Wobbles,rnlifting their cameras off theirrnpaunches to take slow aim. While thernMexicans arriving in Arizona come tornwork and to breed, the Americans are herernto play for a few more ears, and die.rnSouth a mile of the displaced Mexicanrnvillage of Sasabe a brick building onrnthe American side of the border faced arnshack with the flag of the Republic ofrnMexico drooping above it on a pole.rnThe steel gate at the crossing had beenrntorn awa, onlv a fragment left hangingrnfrom one of the posts. Three UnitedrnStates Customs officials as I drove uprnstood glassing the Altar Valley to thernnorth. “What’s going on in Sasabe?” Irnasked. Thev grinned. “What you see isrnwhat there is,” one of the inspectorsrnsaid, making a wide gesture that encompassedrna few hundred square milesrnof desert. He pointed to the ruined gate.rn”We had a smuggler through here twornweeks ago, he was being pursued by thernBorder Patrol. When he reached therncrossing he ducked his head and hit thatrngate doing 70 miles an hour—took itrnclean off, along with the chain and padlock,rnand he was going so fast he didrnhardly any damage to the ear. What wernwere doing when you got here wasrnwatching a red ear, followed by a pickuprntruck, driving out in the mesquite there.rnMost of the trouble goes around us here:rnthe smugglers hae their own road systemrnallowing them to cross the borderrnwithout haing to come through thernPort of Entrw All this vallc’ from thernborder north 20 miles used to be a singlernranch until the owner sold out, andrnnow the lower part here is a bird sanctuary.rnWe’ve got all these nice old folksrndown from Tucson, wandering aroundrnwith their cameras and binoculars, takingrnpictures and looking at the birds, andrnall the time rubbing shoulders withrnsmugglers and desperadoes and neverrnknowing it. It looks tf) me like the carrnand an are harmless, though. You sarn’0u’re from Wyoming? I know a guyrnup in Wyoming. Name’s Bob Skinner.”rn”I knoyy Bob and his brothers, too: outfittersrnout of Pincdale. And I know thernman who used to own this valley. Hernbought a spread near Cora, north ofrnPincdale.” “It’s a small world,” the inspectorrnagreed.rnI le stared away as he spoke at the birdrnsanctuary. The red car and the truckrnhad disappeared and in the vast stillnessrnof the desert nothing could be seen tornstir beneath the savage brow of BaboquivarirnPeak, legendary home of the Papagorndeity I’itoi. “In a couple of hoursrnnow,” the inspector said, “we’ll be ablernto see their headlights out there, 20rnmiles away, and there won’t be a thingrnwe can do about it. The War on Drugsrnis all in the politicians’ mouths.” crn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn