Instinctively, Osborn stopped dead in his tracks. “Don’t shoot,” he whispered as loudly as he dare. “Tom Osborn, of the Idaho 2nd Battalion. I’m here to lead you boys out of here.”

For a moment, there were no sounds, other than the steady pop, pop, pop of M-16s and the rattle of Lou’s machine gun in the distance. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Osborn saw the barrel of a gun emerge from the shadow of one of the buildings. Slowly the image of the barrel was joined by an arm, then a dark figure as his challenger stepped closer to examine Osborn. Only when the militiaman of the 5th Brigade was satisfied that Osborn was who he claimed to be did the militiaman lower his weapon. “It’s about time,” the low, gravelly voice snapped. “We were wondering if there was anyone up in Idaho who had the balls to put their money where their mouth is.”

Relieved beyond all measure, Osborn began to breathe steadily again. “Well,” Osborn responded, “I’m here to tell you, we’re as good as our word. Now, get your stuff together and get a move on. We don’t have a hell of a lot of time.”

Time was a commodity neither leader felt he had enough of. Making his way to within a few feet of the trailer that served as his ops center by rushing from the cover of one stationary vehicle to another, Branson found himself unable to complete his journey when he was within arms’ reach of the front door. Resting against the side of a National Guard armored personnel carrier parked haphazardly in the center of the crowded base camp, Branson watched as another stream of machinegun bullets ripped along the aluminum side of the trailer, sending sparks into the air whenever a round struck a piece of solid metal. Though there were still lights on in the trailer, he saw no sign of any activity coming from it. Dear God, he found himself praying, please let there be someone alive in there calling for help.

Unable to do anything, Branson looked away from the trailer and around the still brightly lit compound. Why, he found himself asking, hadn’t anyone thought of killing all those damned flood lights? Then, he realized that even he was not sure if there was a single switch that would cut all the lights that were making him and his people such easy targets. Yet despite this crippling handicap, some of the FBI men and women, and U.S. marshals, were taking their chances and returning fire. Most, with nothing more than their personal handguns, fired into the darkness where the angry flashes of the devastating machinegun could clearly been seen. Twisting his head about, he looked up at the armored personnel carrier that was providing him protection. For the first time he became painfully aware that in his travels from the mess tent to his present spot, he had not seen a single Guardsman. Only then did he remember what Agent Raymos had told him. All of the Wyoming Guardsmen were in their own compound. While this annoyed Branson, he could not ignore the positive side of the colonel’s arrogant display of self-importance. Perhaps they were not under fire. Perhaps the Guardsmen were coming, like the cowboys they were, galloping to the rescue.