Billy the Man

Don't like the Cowboys? Don't go to Wyoming.

The first Wyoming cowboy I saw after getting out of the stagecoa… I mean, taxi, was looking into the window of a Cheyenne gun store but had stopped to straighten his Stetson and brush down his thigh-hugging denim, over which his belly covered the silver horned belt buckle, and before he walked on, cleaned his upper leather boots on the legs of his jeans.

I was in Cheyanne on other matters, but I went looking for a city cowboy during a free afternoon. Wyoming is an open gun-carry State. No permit is required to buy, own, or carry a firearm on you.

So, where is the real cowboy? You know the one I'm talking about, the guy always on the Chisolm Trail, the muzzle-blowing, dusty-dressed, horse-riding, blanket-sleeping bad dude? He isn't out there riding on the Wyoming prairies. I met two of them in Cheyenne at Gold's Gym, wearing holstered guns on their right hip.

Wyoming is an open-carry State.

With light-brown, close-cropped hair, Bill is the tallest of the two, 6ft, with laughing eyes; friends call him Billy.

Bill has those searching eyes, an aquiline nose with delicately cut features, is muscular, active looking, wearing greasy, deer-skinned pants with fringe, a denim shirt open at the neck, and what looks like a hanky loosely fastened around his neck, I assume to keep off the fierce rays of the afternoon sunshine.

Kingsley, though his mates referred to him as K, has almost black hair and is three inches shorter than Billy but dresses similarly, except K is wearing Cuban-styled high-leg boots over corduroy pants and could easily find a job as an extra for a Western movie.

Both have heavily studded leather belts supporting their handguns. Billy told me they don't refer to them as handguns but revolvers. I stupidly asked if they were loaded. They brought a truck into the city with rifles in the back.

I am still determining what it is like to live and work on the vast plains of Wyoming. I do know that vast areas are short grass prairies. Billy and K work on a beef cattle ranch but are not cowboys; they look after guests, termed a dude ranch. It is a holiday experience in the Wild West for those who want to experience living rough and on horseback.

I've handled weapons, though nothing as basic as a revolver. The only revolver I shot smelled of sulfur from the flinted cap roll when I was six.

The two young men invited me to return and have tea at the ranch's canteen. I said yes, excitedly, and felt like the child I was when firing my cap gun through the wooden fence in the yard while George Snow, dressed as an Indian brave, circled the garden, hollering into the palm of his hand, making hooting sounds.

I remember I had a black cowboy hat. George and I watched Wagon Train on Sundays.

Billy assured me I'd get back okay, and anyway, Uber was always out there. Twenty minutes out of Cheyenne, we were bumping down a dusty trail, flattened with tire treads and not horse's hooves.

When we came to the end of the trail and the beginning of the ranch property, signaled by an arched gate ten feet over the trail from which wire fencing strung out as far as my eyes could see in either direction.

On our drive, the conversation was mostly about me, where I came from, and me handing them the unfortunate news: the Queen was dead. Seems they don't get British television out there. They didn't appear moved by this realization.

It wasn't difficult to see what attracted city people to want to experience living on a ranch: the white corral fences, pretty barns dotted everywhere, which I assumed was accommodation, and horses lazily eating their feed.

K remarked that he was looking forward to having some food, complaining he was starving. When he exited the truck, Bill went first to the closest corral and whistled. A horse looked up and immediately came to him. "This is Lucky," he told me.

Lucky searched Billy's jeans diligently, looking for some tidbits. Billy's pockets yielded nothing, and he gave the horse a good pat on the neck and promised to come back after chow.

That word 'chow' immediately sunk me into experiencing the cowboy life. But Billy and K spoke politely and knew their place in the world as I had never experienced in other young men. They said thank you, please, and let me help you there.

Billy showed me around the place, and if I knew anything about horses, I learned a lot more about how these boys care for their animals.

A half-hour after arriving at the ranch, all the cowpokes, a dozen or so, gathered around the table, as rough and hearty as the food they were about to eat. The cook, whom everyone called Maw, had already insisted on clean hands and faces and made them remove their hats before digging in.

My accent was the reason for many remarks, some even complimentary, some? One anyway. The bad ones were in jest. Boiled potatoes, steak, and beans. The steak, oh my god, it was unbelievable, I mean perfect.

When I gathered around the table, there was a lone female, a girlfriend of one of the cowboys, but not one, not a single one of the men came over as a Trumpster, but all had solid Republican beliefs.

My welcome had been warm and friendly; I didn't want to broach the subject of politics. Life was about fence mending, steers, and funny stories about people from the cities of America or other countries.

Following the meal, it was time to bed the horses down, each to his own.

Walking over to Billy's horse, I asked if he knew what was happening outside the ranch. Bill squinted and smiled.

Then, he bowed his head and spat into the dirt, like a John Wayne kind of thing, and the ants that crawled over the dust must have wondered how they got into an early bubble bath.

Billy looked up, and he sighed. I thought he wouldn't say anything; the pause was long, and he said, "You mean outside of my home or the State?"

"What do you know of events happening in the world, Billy?" I asked.

"I don't need to know, I know what's going on here, on the twenty thousand acres, and I know what the boss wants. He wants me to keep my mind on the job."

Fireflies had already begun to dance over the meadows. Bill grinned, "I suppose you think ranch hands like myself are dumb when it comes to what's happening in the world around us," he said, and before I could reply, he continued, "And you'd be right. But I'm happy. I'm happy in my work, happy when I wake up and go to sleep. The people who come here are a mess of anxiety about something or other," he concluded.

Billy's hand hit his pocket and pulled out a few dollars, "This is all I got till payday. Enough to buy a few beers," he said. He wasn't intimating he was a poor cowboy, quite the opposite. He had enough. The ranch feeds, clothes, and supplies him with all the tools he needs, his horse, and his gun and ammunition.

"Do you feel like it's a big responsibility carrying a gun on you all the time?"

"Responsibility? Nope, it's part of my clothing," Billy said.

Most of my time on the ranch, I felt like a child in Kindergarten.

What I know about events in the world is a burden; it sits on me. It doesn't sit on Billy.

"Do you vote, Billy?"

"Heck yeah. I know some want guns banned. That's always a big one. I agree, and any of those boys at dinner this evening, they'll tell you the same. Ban guns in cities. There's people who didn't grow up with guns on their hips. They aren't confronted with bears or coyotes every day; probably, most of them have never seen a snake. It would make more sense if they could develop a natural system on who ought to carry a gun," he tells me and puts his hand on the handle of his revolver, "This is a tool to help me carry out my job. It isn't fancy; it's a necessary piece of equipment."

Before I left K and Billy, I asked what they thought about Trump.

They didn't answer; both spit on the ground.

Postscript: I had assumed so much before going to Wyoming. Cheyenne is a middle-of-the-road place, charming in many aspects. It is Wyoming, so that the winters will be brutal. Outside of Cheyenne, it pays to be a loner or like isolation. I was in the State for three days. I talked to twenty or thirty different people from different walks of life. Cheyenne is a Republican garrison, Trump-loving, entire of gun-carrying citizens. Farther out, there are people like Billy and K. I would not hesitate to make them my friends.