Muskrat had additional unpleasant habits. He blew his nose on his fingers and wiped the results against his buckskin pants, which probably could have stood up without him in them. He also scratched in the most unseemly places. One scarcely knew where to look when Muskrat was busy digging away at himself.

He did know how to manage and hold together a caravan of greenies, though. Surely never before in the brief history of Yellowstone Park had such an outfit of tenderfeet attempted what we attempted. Perhaps I am not being fair to Muskrat Watkins.

He employed a couple of wranglers to drive the supply wagon and the touring carriages. The wranglers looked like fugitives from the law. They never offered more than their first names, and no one had the nerve or inclination to inquire more.

One of the men spent a lot of time leering at me. Miss Sumner at the female academy had never prepared me to deal with such a specimen, so I ignored him as much as I could. This was not always easy. Father sent him after me once when I strayed away during a stop for luncheon. I was sitting on a rock listening to some magpies abuse each other when he crept up behind me.

“Well, hey, missy,” he whispered, and laughed when I practically jumped straight up.

I shouldn’t have done that, because it was like showing fear around a moody dog. He came closer and reached for me. I drew back. I don’t know what the brigand would have attempted, if Phil hadn’t blundered by then. The wrangler knew I feared him, never a good thing.

Our cook was Chinese, complete with a pigtail. He spoke no English, or so we were informed, but it mystified me that he knew our business so well. He could cook the most incredible meals in a dutch oven. After several days of this, I had to strain to button my skirts.

There we were, the Everett Party: one wealthy railroad executive, his socialite wife and three children. If you are a student of history, you might find us as a footnote in a volume of the history of that summer, along with the Radenburg party or the Helena party. Or not. I never looked.

It rained the morning we left Ogden. We huddled together in the grandiosely named touring carriage, which was a modified army ambulance painted black. I’m not certain the wagon ever possessed springs, but all evidence of them as was gone by the time Muskrat hired the conveyance.

During the noon stop, and at Mother’s urging, I approached Muskrat Watkins. (Cautiously, I might add.) “Pardon me, Mr. Watkins, but does it always rain like this in July?”

I don’t think anyone had ever called him mister before. He stopped chewing his cud and winked at me. “Hell, no, miss, it don’t ever rain like this!” he brayed, spraying me with tobacco juice and digging away at himself. I averted my gaze and vowed to ask no more questions, even if Mother insisted.