“GET OVER HERE!” The voice cut through the air like the twang of a ricocheting bullet.
Little Willy had never heard a voice like that before. Not on this farm. He couldn’t move.
But Searchlight sure could.
The owner of the voice barely had time to step back into the house and close the door.
Searchlight barked and snarled and jumped at the closed door. Then the door opened a crack. The man stood in the opening. He was holding a small derringer and pointing it at Searchlight. His hand was shaking.
“Don’t shoot!” little Willy yelled as he reached out and touched Searchlight gently on the back. The barking stopped. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Clifford Snyder. State of Wyoming,” the man said with authority. He opened the door a little farther.
The man was dressed as if he was going to a wedding. A city slicker. He was short, with a small head and a thin, droopy mustache that reminded little Willy of the last time he’d drunk a glass of milk in a hurry.
“What do you want?” little Willy asked.
“Official business. Can’t the old man inside talk?”
“Not regular talk. We have a code. I can show you.”
As little Willy reached for the door, Clifford Snyder again aimed his gun at Searchlight, who had begun to growl. “Leave that . . . thing outside,” he demanded.
“She’ll be all right if you put your gun away.”
“No!”
“Are you afraid of her?”
“I’m not . . . afraid.”
“Dogs can always tell when someone’s afraid of them.”
“Just get in this house this minute!” Clifford Snyder yelled, and his face turned red.
Little Willy left Searchlight outside. But Clifford Snyder wouldn’t put his gun away until they were all the way into Grandfather’s bedroom. And then he insisted that little Willy shut the door.
Grandfather’s eyes were wide open and fixed on the ceiling. He looked much older and much more tired than he had this morning.
“You’re no better than other folks,” Clifford Snyder began as he lit up a long, thin cigar and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “And anyway, it’s the law. Plain and simple.”
Little Willy didn’t say anything. He was busy combing Grandfather’s hair, like he did every day when he got home. When he finished he held up the mirror so Grandfather could see.
“I’m warning you,” Clifford Snyder continued. “If you don’t pay . . . we have our ways. And it’s all legal. All fair and legal. You’re no better than other folks.”
“Do we owe you some money, Mr. Snyder?” little Willy asked.
“Taxes, son. Taxes on this farm. Your grandfather there hasn’t been paying them.”
Little Willy was confused.
Taxes? Grandfather had always paid every bill. And always on time. And little Willy did the same. So what was this about taxes? Grandfather had never mentioned them before. There must be some mistake.
“Is it true?” little Willy asked Grandfather.
But Grandfather didn’t answer. Apparently he had gotten worse during the day. He didn’t move his hand, or even his fingers.
“Ask him about the letters,” piped up Clifford Snyder.
“What letters?”
“Every year we send a letter—a tax bill—showing how much you owe.”
“I’ve never seen one,” insisted little Willy.
“Probably threw ’em out.”
“Are you sure . . .” began little Willy. And then he remembered the strongbox.
He removed the boards, then lifted the heavy box up onto the floor. He opened it and removed the papers. The papers he remembered seeing when he had looked for the money to rent the horse.
“Are these the letters?” he asked.
Clifford Snyder snatched the letters from little Willy’s hand and examined them. “Yep, sure are,” he said. “These go back over ten years.” He held up one of the letters. “This here is the last one we sent.”
Little Willy looked at the paper. There were so many figures and columns and numbers that he couldn’t make any sense out of what he was looking at. “How much do we owe you, Mr. Snyder?”
“Says right here. Clear as a bell.” The short man jabbed his short finger at the bottom of the page.
Little Willy’s eyes popped open. “Five hundred dollars! We owe you five hundred dollars?”
Clifford Snyder nodded, rocking forward onto his toes, making himself taller. “And if you don’t pay,” he said, “I figure this here farm is just about worth—”
“You can’t take our farm away!” little Willy screamed, and Searchlight began barking outside.
“Oh, yes, we can,” Clifford Snyder said, smiling, exposing his yellow, tobacco-stained teeth.