Cheyenne is a lovely town in which I think to spend the night. I walk its wide streets, pausing to buy a red cowgirl shirt in a western apparel store; to count the wagons on a freight train rumbling through the Union Pacific depot; to photograph the fins on an old Plymouth Fury; to shake my head at the incongruity of a little shop selling sex aids where, if so minded, I could kit myself out as a not-so-shy Anne in a French maid’s outfit and thigh-high PVC boots.
In a nearby square the businesses have all closed down but the buildings have a quiet dignity. The gunshop, the boarded Rex Hotel and the derelict auto transmission shop died recently, but their premises are much older and must have once echoed to the clop of hooves and the jingle of spurs. I am about to check into the Plains Hotel when I realise to my horror that I am still in Wyoming and have not crossed a state line. I quickly rejoin the freeway to squeeze some more distance out of the day and to cross the line into Nebraska.