Tyranny by William W. Johnstone Page B

join him. His eyes were starting to adjust now after the brilliance of the spotlight, and as he turned he saw his grandfather standing there with both rifles and sleeping bags. G. W. dumped the sleeping bags on the ground at his feet.
    â€œGovernment men,” Kyle said. “Were you expecting that, G.W.?”
    â€œI didn’t know what to expect. But I can’t say as I’m surprised. When you need somebody from the government, they’re nowhere to be found, but when there’s trouble to be caused for honest folks, they pop up like ants at a picnic.”
    â€œThey’re crazy, right?” Kyle said. “There’s no way this valley belongs to them.”
    â€œThey claim it does, and in this day and age, when the average citizen doesn’t have many rights anymore, that may be all that matters.” G.W. turned his head and spat. “They find a way to get what they want, and even if it’s not legal, more than half the country just flat doesn’t give a damn. All that matters to those folks is that they get their government handout.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œWell, Miranda said she was going to El Paso first thing in the morning to get that injunction against the IRS. I reckon she’ll let us know when she gets back.”
    Kyle hoped so. He found himself wanting to see Miranda Stephens again.
    â€œAnd when she does,” G.W. said, “we’ll tell her about this. Maybe she’ll have some idea what to do. She’s a pretty smart little gal.”
    â€œYeah,” Kyle said. He moved to pick up the sleeping bags and slung them over his shoulders again. G.W. still carried both rifles as they started hiking back toward the canyon where they had left the pickup.
    After they had gone a hundred yards or so, Kyle asked, “If that guy Todd had gotten the upper hand and looked like he was really going to hurt me . . . would you have shot him?”
    â€œI’m not the sort of man who’d sit by and watch my grandson get hurt,” G.W. said. “It looked like you were handlin’ yourself pretty good, though, so I held off.”
    â€œI’m glad. We’re probably in enough trouble already without any shots being fired.” They walked on, and a minute later Kyle said, “You know, it’s sort of odd, this business about the old Spanish land grant coming up at the same time the IRS is trying to take the ranch away from you.”
    â€œYeah,” G.W. said. “It is, isn’t it?”

Chapter 21
    S lade Grayson had taken a room at the motel, a few units down from that IRS rabbit Barton Devlin.
    Grayson didn’t have anything against the IRS. It was just another federal agency, and he had worked for several of them, bringing his own special expertise to whatever problem they had at the time.
    He didn’t have any use for all the faceless, nameless bureaucrats he had encountered over the years, though, toiling away at whatever boring, menial task they had so they could keep suckling at Uncle Sam’s teat. Taking what little pleasure they could by making the lives of any citizens unfortunate enough to cross their path purely miserable.
    That was their problem. They were small men and women. They thought small, and they settled for petty vindictiveness.
    They had no idea how to rain down the holy hell of the federal government on any who transgressed. They didn’t know how to deliver that fiery vengeance from on high with all the destructive fury of an angry God!
    Not that there really was any god but the government, to Grayson’s way of thinking.
    No, men like Devlin didn’t know how to do that . . . but Slade Grayson did.
    Which made him a different sort of mortal than most, and so he was annoyed when someone knocked on the door of his motel room late that night just as he was getting ready to go to sleep.
    Grayson picked up the small, thin, but lethal automatic from the dresser where he