The face of the town clock was weathered and faded. But from its position atop the spired tower on the corner of the town square, it still lent an air of respectability to the main street of Hiawatha, Kansas. It was 6:45 precisely; the clock kept perfect time.

An evening breeze stirred the tall pines on the lawn of the Brown County Courthouse across the street. Two traffic lights flashed routinely, though the downtown area was empty except for the parked cars of a few diners stopping in for the buffet at Danny's Restaurant, on the east end of the block. It was a typical, quiet, small-town Sunday night. But on this May evening in 1982, at a community hall a couple of blocks off the main drag, the scene was different.

"Look at that!" Mike Ryan exclaimed as he climbed out of the pickup truck and pointed to the cars parked on both sides of the brick-paved street. "They're backed up to the courthouse." His voice carried just a hint of drawl. Ryan crunched his 7UP can and tossed it on the floorboard.

Ryan, his brother-in-law Steve Patterson, and Steve's dad, Maynard, were fifteen minutes early — the lecture was set for seven o'clock. It appeared the Reverend James Wickstrom, national head of the Posse Comitatus, would be drawing a full house tonight.

Impressed, the three men entered the hall and walked down the aisle between rows of tan metal folding chairs. They took seats on the right, halfway back from the podium.

As the minutes ticked away, more and more people filed into the auditorium, filling the seats. By seven o'clock, a number of people were standing up along the back wall.

Once settled, Ryan glanced around at the people who had gathered there. Nearly all were farmers with weathered faces and thick, callused hands. Tonight, most had traded their bib overalls and blue jeans for pastel Western shirts with mother-of-pearl buttons, string ties, double knit dress slacks with black belts and large buckles. Their worn, scuffed work shoes had been replaced by polished Western boots.

Ryan, a big, burly man, stood six feet, two inches tall; his two hundred twenty pounds gave him a bulging belt line. The dark mustache he wore blended into his closely trimmed beard, flecked with gray. In a couple of months, he would turn thirty-five. Tonight, Ryan wore a faded plaid shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He lifted the ball cap from his head and ran his thick fingers across the top of his crew cut; he settled the cap on his head again as he waited for the speaker to arrive. This is all right, he thought, feeling the excitement build in the hall.

Beside him, Steve Patterson felt the same excitement. Like Ryan, Steve was in his early thirties. At six feet, six inches and two hundred pounds, he could afford to be easygoing. Maynard Patterson, a reserved man, had been a farmer all his life.

For many of these farmers, their handshakes and smiles concealed a wrenching strain — the psychological chaos created by the possibility of losing their farms. This year's crop prices had not been enough to cover bank loans. Already they had seen land and machinery go on the auction block. In some cases, farms that had been handed down from generation to generation had been foreclosed on by banks. It was not a happy time for those who farmed and fed the nation. They were accustomed to the dignity of being able to work out their own problems. They had always believed that hard work would see them through. But now, that obviously was not true, and no one cared about them, they thought — least of all the bigwigs in Washington.

Promptly at seven o'clock the Reverend James Wickstrom, wearing a blue leisure suit, walked briskly to the front of the hall. Gripping the sides of the podium, he leaned into the microphone and announced in a calm voice, "All federal agents are asked to leave."

Three men in casual shirts and slacks, attire making them seem very out of place, stood up and walked from the hall.

Ryan snickered. This is going to be some meeting, he thought as he elbowed Steve.

Steve leaned over and whispered, "Those were FBI agents. They try to go undercover. They'll be outside now, taking down license plate numbers."

The Posse Comitatus was just one of several ultra-right-wing, paramilitary groups that the FBI had under investigation. Posse members had been known to flaunt weapons openly and spew rhetoric about a government conspiracy, masterminded by rich Jews, to destroy the American farmer. In short, the Posse, a largely rural movement in the plains states, was anti-tax, anti-government, racist, and anti-Semitic.

In the late 1970s, law enforcement had begun watching these organizations in connection with replevin actions — bank repossessions of land and farm equipment. Activists had been known to show up at farm sales and auctions with nooses or guns, discouraging others from bidding. In western Kansas, a sheriff had turned in his badge over such threats. Law officials were concerned about the escalating potential for violence that seemed inherent in a religious crusade that preached hate and the stockpiling of weapons.

Likewise, the organizations Klanwatch and the Anti-Defamation League considered the Posse Comitatus violent and dangerous. Klanwatch, which monitored activities of the Ku Klux Klan and other white supremacy splinter groups, identified factions of the Posse in at least thirteen states. And, although the Posse boasted of a membership of two million nationwide, the Anti-Defamation League, a defense agency for Jewish citizens, considered this number a gross exaggeration, and estimated Posse membership at several thousand.

Steve had been attending Posse meetings and had been following Wickstrom for the past year, and Ryan had been listening to Steve talk on and on about the Posse. "Where in the hell are you getting all this crap?" he asked one day.

"Wickstrom," Steve said.

"Who the hell is Wickstrom?"

"The Reverend James Wickstrom, the leader of the Posse," Steve had explained. "He lives in Wisconsin. It's a national thing."

Steve, a truck driver like Mike, had picked up some pamphlets on a trip. For months now, Steve had talked about the Posse to Mike and Mike's wife Ruth, the gist of the talk being that taxes were unconstitutional, and that the Jews were screwing up the world monetary system. It looked to Ryan like a bunch of guys had gotten themselves into debt and were just looking for an easy way out. Ryan was attending tonight's meeting at Steve's urging, only because he had nothing better to do.

James Wickstrom straightened and gazed at the audience, seeming to penetrate each watcher with his intense eyes. Wickstrom's physical presence wasn't imposing. He was in his early forties, his face was round and unsmiling. Of medium height, he was a bit hefty with dark hair and dark-tinted glasses.

"I'd like all of you to stand and join me in the Pledge of Allegiance," he said. His voice sounded like it was strained through gravel.

The group rose as one and recited the Pledge. Wickstrom followed with a short prayer, then asked, "You're all hurting, aren't you?"

Heads nodded in response.

"You see friends losing their crops, their livestock, their property. Some of 'em are losing farms that have been in the family for generations. You're afraid your turn might be coming up.

"You're thinking what's happening isn't right. You know what? You're right...