From a site little more than a mile away, Colonel Matthew Tinselly of the Wyoming National Guard, assigned to assist the FBI, watched the one sided fire fight between the FBI compound and the lone militia machinegun. Around him his officers and NCOs crowded together while they waited for his orders. But no orders came. As the minutes ticked by, and the effective fire that held the FBI and U.S. marshals at bay showed no sign of diminishing, some of the Guardsmen began to grow restless. Finally the major serving as Tinselly’s ops officer turned to his colonel. “Sir,” he announced after clearing his throat. “Shouldn’t we dispatch a relief force of some type? I don’t think it would take much to get around behind that machinegun and …”

“And what?” Tinselly snapped. “Get our men killed, too? Bullshit,” he snorted as he answered his own question. “Don’t you think they expect us to do that? Don’t you think that there’s at least a half a dozen of the bastards lying out there in the dark, waiting for us to come charging out of here like the goddamned 7th U.S. Cavalry to save the day?”

The major, recoiling under the colonel’s tirade, stepped back.

“Of course they do. That’s why I’m going to hold back until the situation clarifies itself. Besides,” Tinselly added slyly, “our assistance hasn’t been requested. If those people down there really needed our help, don’t you think the phone would be ringing off the hook?”

The major, unwilling to endue more verbal abuse, bowed his head. “Yes, sir. I imagine they would be calling us.”

Satisfied that he had made his point sufficiently to allay any suspicions about his complicity in the affair, the Guard colonel went back to observing the efforts of Idaho militiamen as they worked to free men who had always counted Colonel Tinselly as one of their own. It took all the Wyoming colonel’s strength to keep from muttering, “Give ’em hell, Idaho.”

The dawn that followed the long, bitter night brought no relief to Ben Branson. Though he tried not to look as he came out of his shattered ops center, his eyes always managed to wander over to the row of black body bags lined up alongside the trailer. Most of the people who had been on duty in the ops center when the attack had begun were now lying there, silent and dead. Special Agent Angel Raymos, barely causing a crease in the bag she occupied, was among them.

So too was Kyle Millner. The bulging stomach that had been the butt of so many jokes stood out, even when covered by the slick black waterproof bag that kept his remains safe from the early morning chill. The sight of these bags, more than the temperature, caused Ben Branson to shiver. Millner didn’t belong there, Branson thought. The old cowboy should be sitting with him in the mess tent, enjoying a cup of coffee as they sorted through the day’s upcoming business. Branson closed his eyes and tried hard to picture the U.S. marshal’s ruddy face, shrouded in steam rising from a cup of coffee held more for the heat it gave off than its drinking pleasure. But there would be no coffee shared in that tent this morning. Not by Millner, not by anyone. It would take hours to clean up the bloody mess in there where the wounded had been taken, when it was all over, to receive first aid.