From the football field size patch of muddy land stretching out along the side of the road where I sat, I could see the gray water of the Cheyenne River winding its way through the low, flat, banks along both sides of the fast moving water. To call it a river, at least this part of it, seemed an overstatement. It actually was no bigger than a large stream, here a little ways outside the town of Wasta. If I hadn’t been told by the attendant at the gas station in Wasta that the Cheyenne River was nearby I most likely wouldn’t have gone down the mostly deserted road to get an up-close glimpse of it. It appealed to my sense of adventure, seeing the river up close, especially since the word Cheyenne brought to mind fantasies about the days of cowboys and Indians. But sitting amidst the yellow scrub-grass…