Ucross administrative assistant Kate Johnston used to work as a wrangler. Friday morning she rounded a heard of us up and drove us into town. Between the five of us we needed: a flight to Denver, a tube of blue paint, a pair of cuticle clippers, five rolls of colour film, six rolls of slide film, one pair of sunglasses, one pair of snow boots, an unknown quantity of postcards, a padded envelope, a book on Wyoming, a bag of corn chips, a bottle of whisky and ten bottles of wine.
I ran into Alison at the Cigar Store. I ran into Michael at the Drug Store. Nora ran into me in the back of a Western Wear store where I furtively caressed a two hundred and fifty dollar pair of pale green cowboy boots.
“They match your coat,” she said thoughtlessly.
“Thanks a lot!” I cried, aghast.
“Danger, danger!” I cried, fleeing the store.
Main Street Sheridan during the Sheridan Stampede of 1914.
It looks pretty much the same today.
. . . . .