It rained all week, and not just any drizzle, mind you. It poured. I am told we drove past curious lava formations before we reached the park, but we couldn’t see any of them. When Mother started giving me disgusted looks, I began to wish I had never listened to Phil.

Not wishing us to be disappointed and call off the venture, Muskrat Watkins did his best to entertain us. Every morning as he rounded up the mules to be put to the wagons, he serenaded us with the most incredible, imaginative profanity it has even fallen my lot to listen to.

Muskrat was a true artiste. He limbered up his voice by auditioning a few of the more standard four-letter curses. When he got his customary response from the mules – a blank, nearly human stare – Muskrat began what can only be described as an aria. His voice rose and fell, crooning dulcemente or thundering basso profundo. He shrieked and railed at the beasts, using the vilest words, then cajoled and caressed them into their harness with gentle bits of vocal pornography.

One could not ignore it. Mother clapped her hands over Eugenie’s ears, leaving Phil and me to fend for ourselves.

Each morning when the animals were finally ready to go, Watkins hauled himself into the saddle and slouched there for the better part of the morning, the portrait of well-earned exhaustion. His profanity seemed to drain him, as if he had spent the day lying on his back painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I cannot say that we ever became accustomed to each morning’s virtuoso performance, but Muskrat Watkins proved beyond any doubt that he was a Genuine Article.

Another diversion on our journey to Yellowstone Park was the addition to our party of Lieutenant Thomas McCormack. Father had pulled a few strings and obtained a more refined guide from the U.S. Army, cavalry wing.

In blinding contrast to Muskrat Watkins, Tom was the perfect escort. In 1870 he had accompanied the Hayden Expedition of discovery that initially mapped what became Yellowstone Park. Tom performed the astounding feat of starting a fire with only one match, and he kept his profanity to the bare minimum. I heard him say “shit” once when a horse stepped on his foot, but that was baby’s cooing, compared to Muskrat Watkins.

I suppose that in his own way, Tom was as much a Genuine Article as Muskrat, conforming to the picture of a typical hero in Phil’s detestable novels. He was well-mannered, courageous, knew sign language, was handsome and neat, even in the wilderness. He had brown hair and grey eyes that made Eugenie sigh and toss away that cork helmet. Naturally, I fell in love with him, too. Who could help it?

As soon as the rain stopped, I asked Muskrat to saddle my horse, so I could join the lieutenant and Father at the head of the outfit. Or I tried to. Father had procured a horse for me that must have been an antique when mountain men and trappers came through the region decades ago. He was an old gelding who had lost all interest in life beyond nipping our Chinese cook and gumming at the sugar barrel when no one was attending. Phil named him Methuselah.