W.A.R. is raging again. Anchorage attorney Wayne Anthony Ross is in court, battling the forces of darkness over gun control -- the dark force this time being a Knowles administration decision to destroy surplus state guns rather than sell them.

So what else is new? Ross has been in court and in the newspapers on behalf of conservative causes for more than 20 years. He wrote a political column for The Anchorage Times and is usually available for a hot quote on any number of snarly issues -- guns, gays, abortion and other Republicans, to name a few.

But something about Ross is new. He survived cancer surgery last year and the close encounter with his own mortality reminded him he has work left to do and no more time than the rest of us to get it done.

''I think he's at a point in his life when he's the most serious he's ever been, '' said his longtime friend, Rex Close.

Though widely known for his gun-rights stand, Ross has been active for 23 years -- on both a personal level and as a lawyer -- with Alaska Right to Life, lead organization in the anti-abortion movement. A devout Catholic, Ross believes his big remaining task on Earth is to help stop abortion, a practice he sums up as ''killing kids.''

''I feel I have a good relationship with the good Lord (but) if I could overturn Roe vs. Wade, I figure I got my ticket, '' he said.

The night before his cancer surgery, when doctors said it might be inoperable, Ross had a little talk with God.

''I told him, 'If you want my input, there's a lot of good fights out there to be fought and I'd just as soon stick around.' ''

GREAT ADVENTURE Ross came to Alaska in 1967, right out of Marquette Law School and newly married to Barbara Froelich, his wife of 27 years. They were part of the last wave of frontier-seekers before oil changed the nature of the great Alaska adventure. Ross worked briefly for the attorney general's office in Anchorage then for four years as Family Court master, sort of a junior judge handling domestic cases. He claims he once had a deadbeat dad arrested at his father's funeral and another as he came down the aisle after getting married.

Ross says he left the bench for private practice because he found himself getting arrogant.

''I found myself being less than my usual cheerful self, '' he said.

Maybe, but it's hard to imagine W.A.R. sticking with a career in the bureaucracy under any circumstances. The son of a Wisconsin insurance man, he was a business major in college and working at a grocery store when he switched to law.

''One day the boss came in and fired the store manager, right in front of everyone. I thought, 'I don't want to ever be in a position where that can happen to me. . . . You work for somebody, they can tell you when you can go fishing.''

Ross smiles when he says this, but it's not a joke. His lifelong passion for guns is tied to an equal passion for hunting, fishing and the outdoors.

''Mom would get upset, '' said his oldest son, Greg. ''But if school opened on the first of September, guess what? The Ross kids would not be there. We'd be hunting with dad.''

HERO OF HIS OWN LIFE Like David Copperfield, Ross is determined to be the hero of his own life, painting his public portrait in extremes and reveling in the reaction. His personalized ''WAR'' license plate is instantly recognizable; directions to his home include reference to a drawbridge and ''the moat, '' neither of which is strictly true. (The moat is a slight ground depression encircling the house.) He admires the legend of Teddy Roosevelt and has been accused of cultivating a slight physical resemblance to the dead president.

He plays these games to advance causes he believes in, but also because it's his nature to be a showman. He enjoys confounding people and loves being the center of attention.

Take for example his dealings with attorney Allison Mendel. Ross and Mendel both do a lot of family-squabble law -- divorce, child custody, missed support payments, kids in trouble. She says he represents ''the boy's point of view.'' Ross doesn't agree.

''He's arrogant and opinionated, '' Mendel said. ''He shows up (in court) with his cowboy boots and cowboy hat and doesn't stand up when the judge comes in. . . . He has a very definite view of the world.''

During a fight several years ago over gay rights, Mendel helped organize Anchorage lawyers in support of an anti- discrimination ordinance. Ross wrote a nasty letter to the Bar Association newsletter, using words like ''immoral, '' ''perversion'' and ''degenerates.'' The language went way beyond reasonable disagreement, Mendel and others said.

But months later, when Mendel found herself crosswise with a judge and facing a possible jail term for contempt, Ross publicly supported her and even sent a small check for her defense fund.

''He takes principled positions, '' Mendel said, somewhat grudgingly. ''I'd rather deal with him than someone who views it all as a shell game.''

MAN OF 'INTEGRITY' People asked to summarize Ross's character almost always mention ''integrity.'' He puts his time, which for a lawyer is the same as money, where his mouth is, said Pam Sigfried, an anti-abortion activist. He's been a free lawyer for anti-abortion activists for 23 years and, according to Sigfried, once took a trespass case all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court ''for the price of the paper.''

There's more to it than causes. For 25 years Ross has been the Anchorage version of a small-town family lawyer, banking a lot of goodwill with people who think ''the system'' is stacked against the little guy. His friend Close is an aircraft maintenance supervisor for the Air Force and a fellow gun collector. Years ago Ross represented Close in a successful battle with the state over whether his rebuilt pickup truck legally qualified for personalized license plates. The case won't make a splash in legal journals, but it mattered a great deal to Close, who remembers it as ''Wayne and Rex taking on Goliath.''

''I would do anything for that guy and his family, '' Close said.

In his bolo ties and cowboy boots, Ross has the easy confidence of a big man who doesn't have to prove he's a tough guy. Greg Ross, oldest of the Ross children, says he's never known his father to get in a physical fight. Still, ''arrogance'' is another word often used to describe him and acknowledged by Ross himself.

Former legislator Mitch Abood, now brigadier general of a government- approved state militia called the Alaska State Defense Force, has known Ross for about 10 years and made him Col. Ross, inspector general of the 240-man unit.

''I just can't say enough good things about him, '' Abood said. ''He'll do anything in the world for you.''

But, said Abood, Ross ''can't stand to be wrong. . . . He's on a mission. There's no doubt about it. He thrives on confrontation. . . . He tries to convince me that he is absolutely right and I am absolutely wrong, and I don't buy that. . . .''

''He can dig in and be very belligerent, say there's my way and no way, '' said Close.

''I would say that hits the nail on the head, '' Ross agreed. ''I think it's helped make me successful as an attorney, and it's a fault that needs to be worked on.''

Nearly 30 years after he arrived here searching for his future, Ross still connects to that small-town Anchorage he found. He takes in stray horses and picks up strangers. In the late 1980s, he opened his home to Scott Mackay, teenage son of lawyer Neil Mackay, one of the most notorious murder defendants in Alaska history, offering the boy a safe haven after his father was acquitted so he could finish high school. And Barbara Ross says it's routine for Wayne to call and say he's met some interesting tourists wandering around downtown and bringing them home for dinner.

''He looks after a lot of people, '' said his son.

At 52, Ross is a successful lawyer with a practice that earns him from $175,000 to $250,000 a year, according to his count. He has a home on the Hillside, 6,000 books, a certain celebrity, an enduring marriage and four grown children anyone would be proud of.

''Alaska helped me to become far more than I ever expected to be, '' he said, ''to become more successful than I expected.''

Still, he's restless.

NRA POWER PLAY Throughout the late 1980s, Ross thought he was going to be president of the 3-million member National Rifle Association, but things didn't turn out the way they were supposed to.

A member since 1964, he was elected to the executive board in 1980, then rose to first vice president in 1990. Traditionally, he would have spent two years in that job then become president. Instead, he lost his second year in the vice presidency by three votes.

''He was caught in one of the perennial power plays that racks the NRA from time to time, '' said Osha Davidson, author of a book about the organization. The simple version of the coup is that Neal Knox, radical even by NRA standards, lined up enough votes to oust board members interested in taking a less confrontational approach, said Davidson. Knox represented a shift in organizational focus from supporting hunters and collectors to politicking in favor of a broad right-wing agenda, he said.

Outsiders unfamiliar with the nuances of Second Amendment issues might classify the opposing factions as militant gun-rights advocates on one side and even more militant gun-rights advocates on the other side. But news stories tend to label the two sides ''moderates'' and ''extremists.'' W.A.R. is in the first category and seems a little disconcerted about it.

''I don't deserve that 'moderate' title they tried to put on me, '' he groused after newspaper stories called him a dissident. His friend, Joe Nava of Fairbanks, a former NRA board member, tends to agree. ''He's not a dissident, '' Nava said. ''He's simply a minority.''

POSSIBLE RACE Ross is back on the NRA board now, but nowhere near the real circle of power controlled by Knox and his buddies. So what's a middle-aged man with a mission and a love of action to do? Ross says he'll probably run for governor in 1998.

The closed Republican primary gives conservatives like him an edge, he says -- a theory that didn't work in the last election, where moderate Jim Campbell beat Tom Fink. Anchorage banker's son Dave Cuddy plans to test the theory again next summer with a primary run against Sen. Ted Stevens, the state's top Republican and a Ross foe.

It's obviously too early to start speculating about a move Ross might make three years down the road. But it might be pertinent to wonder if there's still room for eccentric, mouthy individualists in big-time politics. Close, who clearly admires Ross, says maybe his friend has waited too long. ''I personally think he's about 20 years too late, '' Close said. ''The good old Alaskan philosophy's gone. It's more liberal now. The numbers may not be there.''

Ross isn't making any predictions. He's licked the cancer. He's busy running Phil Gramm's presidential campaign in Alaska and gearing up to argue in court next year that the state has no right to destroy salable, legal surplus guns. His life so far has been a satisfying adventure. He figures the road ahead won't be any less.

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