What I noticed when we stopped in this one-horse town known for the steakhouse was that not too many people get out at five for supper. Last time we were here together, it was packed at 6:30. Still, we waited just as long for our steaks. It is dark in there and I was chilled, even with my warm grey Carnegie Mellon jacket on–odd coming from 90 degree heat, and yet normal for me. Air conditioning always chills me.  

The cook, a rather large woman, spent much of her time sitting on a high stool at the bar counter. Our waitress checked on us frequently to fill our ice-tea; I think she sensed my partner’s impatience. Booths with red plastic seats lined the walls that were hung with the posters from years of Cheyenne Frontier Days. Larger tables filled the room’s center. Above the bar hung the many mounts of someone’s…