Tyranny by William W. Johnstone Page A

grandfather was happy here. The IRS had no right to do what they were doing.
    â€œI don’t suppose you want to go to church with me in the mornin’,” G.W. said.
    â€œI’m not much for singing hymns and listening to a preacher, you know that.”
    â€œIt might do you some good.”
    â€œIt probably would,” Kyle agreed, “but if it’s all right with you, I think I’ll just sleep in.”
    â€œFine. I’m not gonna argue with you.”
    â€œMaybe there are some chores around here I can do for you,” Kyle suggested.
    â€œI’ll take care o’ Sunday chores before I leave,” G.W. said gruffly. “Don’t worry about it.”
    Kyle nodded. He knew he had let his grandfather down, but there was only so much a guy could change at a time.
    He changed the subject by saying, “Tell me about the people who have been sneaking around here. What did you mean when you said maybe we could put a stop to it?”
    â€œHalf a dozen times my hands have spotted a couple of fellas in a jeep out on the range where they shouldn’t be. We still work the cattle mostly on horseback, so by the time my men rode out to where the jeep was, it was gone and so were the fellas in it. I’ve seen ’em myself. Not only that, I’ve heard their engine at night, up around that pool at the edge of the hills.”
    Kyle knew the pool his grandfather meant. The creek formed it by running into a basin in the rocks. It wasn’t very big, maybe twenty feet across and five or six feet deep, and from there the stream trickled on out in the valley for another quarter mile before disappearing. Kyle had gone swimming in that natural pool when he was a kid, and he remembered how clear and cold the water was.
    â€œWhat I was thinkin’,” G. W. went on, saying, “is that you and me would stake ourselves out up there and wait for the varmints to show up.”
    â€œAt night, you mean?”
    â€œYeah. We’ll take our sleepin’ bags and take turns standin’ guard until they show up again.”
    â€œAnd what do we do then?” Kyle asked.
    â€œWell, we’ll take rifles, too,” G.W. said. “That ought to help convince ’em to tell us who they are and what in blazes they’re doing sneakin’ around my ranch.”
    Kyle frowned and said, “You’re going to throw down on IRS agents? That’s a good way to get your butt in a federal pen, G.W.—or shot off.”
    â€œWell, what do you think we ought to do?” G.W. demanded with a frown of his own.
    â€œHaving a stakeout and trying to catch them is a good idea, but maybe we’d better leave the guns at home. You’ve got a spotlight, don’t you?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œIf we hit them with the spotlight, they won’t be able to see us. They won’t know whether we’re armed or not. If they’ve got any sense they’ll answer our questions. This is still your land, and you’ve got a right to know who’s on it and why.”
    G. W. snorted and said, “Well, I’m glad we see eye to eye on that much, anyway.”
    â€œWe’d better record the whole thing, too. If we can prove that the IRS has been trespassing, it might help your case in court.”
    â€œMaybe,” G.W. said in grudging agreement. “I’ve got one of those fancy phones that’ll record video.”
    â€œThat’s not fancy. They’ll all do that now. They have for twenty years or more.”
    G. W. ignored that and said, “We’ll start tomorrow night. Don’t want to do it tonight because it might interfere with church in the mornin’—and with your sleepin’ in.”
    Kyle let that little jab go on by unremarked and picked up the longneck from the porch planks beside his chair.
    â€œTo Operation Skulker,” he said as he raised the bottle in a toast.
    G.W. just made a slightly disgusted