But few of the Federal agents clustered in the folds of earth that made up the foothills of North America’s greatest mountain chain took note of how the setting sun splashed the sky and high, thin clouds with stunning hues of crimson, pink, and yellow. This was especially true of Special Agent Ben Branson. Following the same worn footpath he had been using for the past ten days, his eyes darted over the landscape, not searching for hints of the coming spring, but seeking out any sign that the militia members his teams had run to ground here had moved. His dedication to his profession and the task at hand blinded him to any other thought or sight that did not contribute to the swift and successful completion of the operation he was in charge of.

Stopping at each of the twelve positions that dotted the landscape manned jointly by members of his team and U.S. Marshals, Ben Branson greeted their occupants with little more than a nod. As he climbed down, or up as each particular position required, its occupants would step aside to permit Branson free access to the rampart that overlooked the militia compound. Each of these positions were more or less the same, a ring of sandbags augmented by a foxhole carved out of the rocky soil. Few efforts were made to camouflage them. In addition to protecting the FBI agents and U.S. Marshals from direct observation and fire from the besieged, the ring of bunkers were meant to intimidate the renegade militiamen. Each collection of sandbags and dirt thrown up about the silent ranch reminded them that they could not hide from the omnipresent gaze of the Federal government.

Once at the front of the position, Branson would plant his elbows upon the sandbags, lift a pair of binoculars that always hung about his neck, and begin to carefully study the clusters of outbuildings, sheds, and the weather-beaten house before he lost the last of the day’s fading yellow light. As he did so he made a mental picture of every detail, every scrap of wood, discarded oil drum, and pile of rubbish. In the morning he would do the same, matching what he remembered from the night before to how everything lay at that moment. If anything was out of place, if something had been moved, he would have one or more of his teams focus all the high powered optics, scopes, video cams, and still cameras on the site in question in order to examine it in excruciating detail. Only when his experts were able to convince him that the alteration in the landscape was accidental or totally innocent would he relent and allow his men to return to duties that had now become routine.

Behind him the senior U.S. marshal for this operation, Kyle Millner, looked out over the same scene Branson was studying so intently. When he was satisfied with his cursory inspection, Millner grunted. “Ben,” he whispered in a voice that never failed to betray his southwestern origins, “if I was one of those good ole boys down there, I swear I’d sneak out every night and move things about, just so I could watch you and your boys flutter around out here every morning like chickens in a hail storm.”