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It was quite simple, really. Acquiring a gas can and fuel from a station in Laramie, the person purchasing it was assumed to be just another anonymous farmer or rancher. Pulling off the highway and hiking down the drive and around the parking area to the storage was the most strenuous part. No one was around, including the sheriff, whose car was parked in front of the lodge. Splashing the gas against the side of the building, then leaving the plastic container at the back, offered a certain excitement that zinged through the body. Just like in the movies, the match lit on the first strike, and blue flame topped with bright yellow licked at the line of gasoline around the perimeter, the accelerant urging the flames up the walls of the structure. Stepping back from the heat to watch, for
