cleared as I came off the east slope into arndifferent weather system and the old, familiar,rnwesterly Wyoming of dry skies,rnbroken sagebrush plains, and tors andrnoutcrops of pulverizing, antelope-coloredrnsandstone and shale.rnSaratoga, with a population of onlyrn1,969 people, has some pretty highflyingrnones among them. Two Lear jets and another,rnmuch larger, private one stoodrnparked at the end of the airstrip wherernRoss Perot and other undesirable elementsrnfly in occasionally for a game ofrngolf at the country club—itself a throwbackrnto the old Cheyenne Club of morernthan a hundred years ago, where gentlemenrnranchers in the pay of the big Britishrncattle companies (which operated withoutrnbothering to own Wyoming, including,rnoften, the ground they built theirrnhouses and barns on) dined on champagne,rncaviar, and oysters, as well as elkrnand, of course, beef They tried scaringrnthe small settlers out and, when theyrnwouldn’t scare, shot or hanged them.rnThe anti-settler campaign culminated inrnwhat is known as the Johnson CountyrnWar (not to be confused with the LincolnrnCounty War in Mexico featuring Billyrnthe Kid and Pat Garrett) in the 1890’s,rnwhen a small private army fielded by thernWyoming Stockgrowers’ Association traveledrnby special train from Denver tornCasper. Equipped with dynamite and arnso-called Dead List of 70 names, it continuedrnnorth toward Buffalo with the intentionrnof blowing up the town andrnkilling most of the inhabitants, startingrnwith the sheriff. At the KC Ranch (nowrnthe town of Kaycee, Wyoming), theyrnmurdered two or three men on the list,rnbut before they reached Buffalo werernthemselves surrormded by a counterforcernfrom town and rescued by U.S. troops onlyrnminutes before the ranch house theyrnwere trapped in could be set afire by arnflaming haywagon. (President Harrisonrnwas friendly with John Gray, the Scotsrnchairman of one of the interested cattlerncompanies.) As contemporary communitiesrnsuch as Saratoga, Jackson, andrnSheridan suggest, a process of social andrneconomic reversion seems to be overtakingrnthe Equality State, where the nativesrnare nearly flat broke or moved out followingrnthe wreck of the energy industry andrnthe Great Buyup, working ranches beingrntaken over by the megarich from all overrnAmerica — indeed, all over the world.rnAround Laramie, too, the old ranchersrnare being dispossessed and replaced—by,rnamong others, a Wal-Mart heir who hasrnacquired already some 700,000 acres (“tornrun cattle on”) and is said to want tornmake it an even million. Little billionairesrnnever grow up; they just buy other,rnmore expensive toys.rnBecause, after nearly 20 years’ residencyrnin Wyoming, I had never visited therncapital of the state, and also because it’srnthere, I drove 44 miles east across thernLaraiTiie Mountains to Cheyenne. FrontierrnDays, claimed by the city fathers to bernnot just the first but the longest-runningrnrodeo in captivity (the claim is disputedrnby at least a couple of other contenders),rnwas just getting under way, a special trainrnfrom Denver pulling in, but even FrontierrnDays wasn’t enough to makernCheyenne look good. The town is arndump (there’s something about politicalrncities) of 50,000 people (add anotherrn50,000 up for the rodeo, minus a couplernof thousand inhabitants smart enough tornleave town for the week), depressing tornlook at, hot, surrounded by missile silosrnand grass, whose best-known featurernapart from the disappointing state capitolrnbuilding is the Hitching Post Lounge besidernthe Union Pacific tracks where,rnwhile the legislature is in session inrnJanuary and February, politicians andrnlobbyists gather for too many drinks andrnwho knows what other amusements.rn(Wyoming’s sole contribuhon to the U.S.rnHouse of Representatives, Barbara Cubin,rnwhile a member of the state body isrnsupposed to have taken surreptitiousrnsnapshots of her male colleagues’ crotches,rnthen posted the series on a bulletinrnboard: Can you pin this tail on the rightrnhorse’s ass . . . ?) I stopped in for a beer atrnthe lounge, a lurid establishment in erimson-rnand-black, with rodeo photos on thernwalls and barstools upholstered likernblack-and-white cows, where a countrywesternrnband in mufti (T-shirts and jeansrninstead of cowboy shirts and hats) was rehearsingrnfor the evening performance.rnRock music is unadulterated evil, C&Wrnjust junk. Years ago, when I was learningrnto become a Westerner, I thought I likedrnsome of it. Two decades later, I knowrnbetter than to swallow any culture whole.rnIn America today, you have to design andrnlive your own culture: red wine andrnwilderness, hunting and books, horsesrnand Haydn, making for happiness, if notrnpopularity. I finished the beer and putrntwo bits dowir on the bar. LeavingrnCheyenne is the best way to see thernplace.rnThe horses had each dropped a shoe Irndiscovered next day, the mare from herrnnear front hoof, the gelding from his offrnfront one. The farrier recommended tornme was Roger Lorenzi, a local brand inspector.rnHe turned out to be the son ofrnWinnie and Orion Lorenzi of Kemmerer,rnso we hung off the tailgate of his truckrnfor an hour after the shoeing was done,rnswapping stories of snowed-in huntingrncamps in the Wyoming and sheep campsrnin the Salt River Range. In Wyoming,rnwhich is just 465,000 people spread overrn97,000 square miles, if you have friendsrnin one town, you’ve got friends in all ofrnthem.rnNewly shod and hogfat from the greenrngrass they’d eaten since arriving fromrnNew Mexico, the horses were ready forrnthe mountains — the real mountains —rnagain. We begin with a warm-up: sevenrnor eight miles into the foothills abovernCentennial. Unslowed by 200 pounds ofrnexcess weight, the gelding stepped outrnbriskly, his hooves ringing briskly on thernhollow groimd between the tree roots:rnglad to be home again and doing what arnhorse likes to do (sometimes) as wernclimbed upward through the still lodgepolernforest broken by sagebrush parks liftingrnabove the tops of the pine trees. Inrnthe parks, I rode through the edge ofrnquaking aspen and dismounted to searchrnfor elk sign and to pick a small bouquet ofrnsummer flowers — bluebells, Indianrnpaintbrush, larkspur, lupin, the delicate,rnbasin-shaped lilies whose name I didn’trnremember —for Renee Williams, arnfriend left behind in Las Cruces, where Irnhoped some final expiring fragrance ofrnthe northern mountains would reach herrnyet. From a rocky knoll, the high peaks tornthe west were hidden by dark green interveningrnridges, but the steep long bulk ofrnSheep Mountain was visible to the eastrnand so was the tawny Laramie Plain,rnstretching away in slanting sunlight andrnthe dark shadow of afternoon stormrnclouds. Thunder echoed in the hills, arncold breeze rose, and it seemed to me, sittingrnthe horse and staring down towardrnthe fenced pastures and scattered housesrnof Centennial, that after nearly two misspentrnyears in New Mexico, everythingrnwas finally back the way it should be —rnthe way it was meant to be. Except I wasrnfacing in the wrong direction, east towardrnthe High Plains rather than west to thernthick granite spine of the North AmericanrnContinent. Come August, when thernsnow finally melts out of the high country,rnwe’ll fix that, too.rn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn