Ahh, so this explains it:
In my post on creative fantasy which I somehow managed to turn into a discourse on sexual fantasy figures (just scroll down and stop at Willie) I wandered off the old trail and got into some self-analysis as to why my lifelong fantasy men have always been cowboys. I guess the above photo gives some insight into my development (I’m the little chubby one on the left; that’s my svelte and more ladylike sister on the right).
Oddly enough, I also clearly remember an Indian village I built on a hill overlooking our house. There were three teepees made from sticks and dropcloths (painter’s protective mats) and I had a bowcase made out of a white with colored rings umbrella case to which I pinned some clothesline so it could be worn on my back.
Even odder, I never was a cowgirl, but an official cowboy (black-hatted one at that), and I was not squaw but rather the Indian brave in my little village. Evidently about when I stopped playing pretend, I also grew wise enough to recognize and fantasize about my male cowboy heroes instead of wanting to be exactly like them.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology