Brigham Young came into the room leaning on a cane and half-supported by a son. His eyes lit up when he saw Father. “Those were the days, weren’t they, Mr. Everett?” he began, by way of introduction.

I trust you have all seen photographs of Young, but they didn’t do justice to him. He was above middling height and large, with a beard I can only call patriarchal. His personality filled the room and we were captivated.

He and Father exchanged pleasantries, and then the old prophet was introduced to Mother, who did her duty. He shook hands with Phil and Eugenie, and then he came to me. He hooked his cane over his forearm and grasped my hand in both of his.

“So you’re the little lady who wants to see Yellowstone Park?” he asked, still holding my hand. I suppose I should have felt uncomfortable, but I didn’t.

“Yes, sir. It was my idea.”

He patted my hand then let it go. “I hope you find what you’re looking for there.”

“Thank you, sir,” I answered, awed by the force I felt. I didn’t know what he meant, but I have wondered since then about the gift of prophecy.

He and Father conversed for several minutes – I heard something about an upcoming visit to Mr. Young’s winter home in St. George – then another daughter served us eclairs and punch. Phil jabbed me discreetly when I took my first bite, whispering that I shouldn’t eat it. He reminded me of Abducted by the Saints, where the heroine eats a drugged doughnut and is carried off to a harem in Utah. I made a face at him and ate his eclair, too. They were delicious.

We left soon after refreshments, when the “prophet, seer and revelator” started to nod off over his punch. We didn’t know it at the time, of course, but Brigham Young had less than a few months to live. Popular opinion may brand him a thorough-going scoundrel, but I don’t know.

We spent the night in Salt Lake, then journeyed back to Ogden next morning to meet our guide for the Yellowstone venture.

His name was Muskrat Watkins, a man with the distinction of possessing the yellowest teeth of any human being I have ever seen. Part of his dental challenge was due to the wad of tobacco he harbored in one cheek or the other. He chewed on that disgusting mess for hours, then suddenly expectorated a stream of yellow-brown tobacco juice. It made my stomach lurch to watch him.

The accuracy of his aim impressed me, despite my queasiness. He could nail a grasshopper at twenty paces and put such a curve in his expectoration that he practically spat around rocks.

Muskrat Watkins delighted Phil. Here, at last, was a Genuine Article of the West, easily recognizable after a steady diet of those prevaricating frontier novels. Thank the Lord Phil didn’t adopt any of the man’s saltier habits, the least harmless of which was chewing with his mouth open. I must add here that even loyal Phil endeavored to remain upwind of Muskrat Watkins.