The Yellowstone, Forever

By David M. Delo

The Yellowstone, Forever! (Revised), 112,700 words

This historically-accurate story is about the exploration and creation of our first national park, the Yellowstone. It rests primarily on the lives of the five men involved in both processes. They were five aggressive and highly visible figures during the second half of the 1800s: Ferdinand Hayden, our only government geologist; Thomas Moran who drew the first colorful images of the Yellowstone; William Henry Jackson who took the first pictures of the Yellowstone; Jay Cooke, a highly successful private banker who saved the north during the civil war by creating popular war bonds; and, Nathaniel Langford, frontiersman, explorer, and banker who pulled everyone together and made everything happen.

The story unfolds chronologically, beginning with Hayden who, in 1860, sees a vague image of the Yellowstone in winter from a high pass in the Wind River Valley. He is the third party to explore the Yellowstone; the first two were private groups which came from Helena, Montana.

The accompanying theme is the financing and building of the Northern Pacific Railroad. Jay Cooke attempted to be that financier and failed, even though he had planned a spur of the railroad into the newly discovered region called the Yellowstone.

The chapters bounce back and forth between explorers until the last chapters of the book which deal with the process of publicizing and encouraging congressmen to understand the unique value of that area which was then still part of public lands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingfisher Creations
• Release date: Apr 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393731900

David M. Delo

Bio of author David M. Delo I’ve never been great at anything, but I have been around and have had as many failures as I have successes. After college, I was a C.I. agent for NATO (US Army) in Europe. Back in the USA, I became an educational administrator for the American Geological Institute, in Washington, D.C.; a systems analyst and V. P. at Levi Strauss & Co. in San Francisco; owner of a guest ranch in Wyoming; a P. R. writer for a university library in Illinois and grants writer for a not-for-profit organization in Montana; owner of a publishing company (Kingfisher Creations) through which I authored 10 books; and a semi-professional photographer for half a century. I have also been an artist since 1993 and I have been bipolar II since the mid-1960s. I guess you could say I have had a colorful life. Since the turn of the century, I have resided within the world of creativity. My books (and paintings) are my children and my heritage. My action-mysteries are based on my years in Europe. My historical novels are all based on places to which I have ventured, and I still love my protagonists with whom I identify–a geologist, an artist, a photographer, and an intrepid explorer of the west.

Book preview

Chapter 1: June, 1860, Hayden's Vow

Captain William Franklin Reynolds of the U. S. Army's Corps of Topographic Engineers stared at the volcanic ridge that blocked his way. The band of rock extended right and left without interruption. It was black, close to one hundred feet thick, and showed not so much as a crack.

Reynolds stretched his legs against the Spanish stirrups. His body told him that he had been in the saddle too long. As he contemplated this latest obstruction, an icy wind rushed toward him from the mountain. Trees high on the slope above began to sway and snow dust filled the air. The wind shook ice-covered bushes around him and made his horse paw the ground. It chilled him and covered him in a fine coat of snow. Moments later, the wind died, the last rays of the sun disappeared in a swirl of clouds, and the air held the promise of heavy frost.

The Captain leaned to one side, placed a gloved finger on one nostril, and casually blew through the other. He closed his mind against the nagging question of why his expedition was not evolving as intended. Well, he thought, if this is the head of the Wind River Valley, it is supposed to lead to the upper Yellowstone, so we'll find a way across, or by God, I'll start chewing ass.

He turned his horse and stared without pleasure at the men of his expedition. The majority were soldiers who waited silently for his word. Reynolds didn't need to make a head count: all forty were there. Then he appraised his little scabby band of civilians. They sit there, he thought disdainfully, each with his own unspoken opinion about the wisdom of everything. They were Reynolds' pet peeve.

He was about to issue instructions when Jim Bridger broke from the civilian side and rode toward him. The old guide moved as though the horse and saddle were a part of him. Reynolds wondered whether the mountain man had spent more time on horseback than he had on the ground.

Bridger was not bundled up as the others. At first glance, he appeared poorly prepared for the cold, yet he showed no discomfort either from the weather or from the long ride up the Wind River Valley. He stopped his horse close to his leader, pulled a corncob pipe from his mouth, and rested both hands on the pommel. The skin on the back of his hands and face resembled well-rubbed leather. Its character verified Bridger's claim he had weathered dry winds born in mountain passes, decades of dust storms, blizzards, and the embers of a thousand campfires.

Beneath his narrow-brimmed hat, the lines in the guide's wrinkled face aligned themselves in a wry, knowing smile.

I told you there was no way you would ever get across these mountains at this time of year, Captain, said Bridger matter-of-factly. Not after a winter like this. He let his eyes drift toward the mountain wilderness with its protruding black band of lava. Them volcanics is a good two thousand feet below the crest. Even a bird could not get across without taking along a supply of grub.

Reynolds followed Bridger's stare, then gave him a grudging nod. All right, we'll camp here for the night. Then he raised his voice to a shout. I said, we’ll camp here for the night!

Here was a Y-shaped, flat-bottomed valley at the head of the Big Wind River. At nearly eight thousand feet above sea level, it was hemmed in by steep, forested hills and snow-covered ridge lines—plus a sinuous bed of lava. The little valley was the last flat spot before their ascent into the Shoshone Mountains.

It was a poor place to spend the night. There were no nearby trees to cut the wind, and the earth was sodden from hummocks of melted snow. No one, however, risked offence or rebuke by suggesting an alternative. At least drinking water was close at hand. The de Noir, also known as the Blackfoot, emerged from its own lava-rimmed valley to the north and joined the Wind River at the edge of camp. Beneath a partial covering of ice, the stream made a few last meanders then ran down the slope into the valley.

The men of Reynolds' expedition, civilians and soldiers alike, hurried to assemble fires. All they had was willow, which burned poorly and barely stayed the cold. Occasionally, a soldier looked up at the black belt of rock. When a hole appeared in the cloud cover, men glimpsed snow-clad peaks, distant and proud. They shimmered as though untouched, the kind artists painted.

The snow and wind told them to come back later; winter was not over. Captain Reynolds had no such intention. He stood slightly apart from his men with a posture that conveyed disdain for the elements. His pose also conveyed the notion he was accustomed to the wilderness. On the contrary, the officer was an inexperienced traveler in the West. This was his ground-breaking journey, one through which, to date, he had revealed himself as sour and egocentric, an irritated man because nature might cause him to alter his plans.

As Reynolds pondered his next move, one of the soldiers muttered, If the Indians call this the Warm Valley, while do I feel like someone shoved in icicle up my bum? His friends snickered.

They say that wind like this always comes before a blizzard, said another. Can you see us scaling that cliff with horses while it's snowing?

It's the end of the line, and not a moment too soon for me, whispered a third.

Reynolds scanned the huddles of his uniformed men with half-shut eyes, then walked a few paces toward the loose cluster of civilians. He had chosen the disciplined life of an army officer, so to him, civilians were a sorry lot, yet each man had a specialty he needed to fulfill his scientific mandate. He suffered their presence.

A diminutive form adjusted a wool blanket wrapped tightly around him. Reynolds took two steps toward the man. A gust of wind whipped his long coat against his legs as he spoke. Did you hear what that soldier said, Doctor? He spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. He said this is the end of the line. He believes the Rockies have defeated us. He raised one bushy eyebrow, leaned forward slightly, and hissed. You haven't caused God to abandon us, have you, Doctor?

The Doctor in question raised his head. The motion revealed the face of Ferdinand Hayden, a wiry gentleman in his early thirties. He had thin, black, hair he kept swept back, and a thick, curly black beard. Doctor was his true title, not a sobriquet, for he was a medical doctor, even if his skills in that department had nothing to do with his presence in the Wind River Mountains. He had been hired as the expedition's naturalist. It was a position he might have enjoyed had Reynolds left him alone.

He took another moment to readjust his wrap. One hand held a notebook, the other a pencil stub. It was evident that, rather than simply huddling against the cold, he had been writing. The thick, worn notebook was the size one could slip in and out of a jacket or coat pocket. The brown leather cover protected his sketches and descriptions of rock formations and plants, and a brief commentary on local geology, topography, fauna, and flora.

His pensive expression carried a hesitance; nothing diffident, just a simple wariness. More than a year ago, he had accepted the assignment Captain Reynolds had offered him. Since April 1859, when they had rendezvoused on the Missouri steamer Spread Eagle, they had shared one another's company continuously. Today was the last day of May, 1860. Their relationship to date had been a mismatch made in hell.

The past four months had been the worst. After Reynolds' party had made temporary quarters on the Oregon Trail near Fort Caspar, one of the worst winters on record held the men captive for six months. In addition to Hayden, the civilian contingent included two young geologists, an artist, a meteorologist, guide Jim Bridger, and James Stevenson, a young assistant who worked with Hayden.

It seemed to Hayden he and Reynolds had been alone in a one-room cabin, jousting, bickering, picking on one another, and squabbling like vultures over carrion. When the expedition broke camp nineteen days ago, his hatred for the officer had been honed to a fine edge.

He had known next to nothing of Captain Reynolds before he joined this expedition. He assumed only that the officer had to be a better person to work for than his previous exploration commander, Gouverneur K. Warren. Hayden was convinced that Warren—also from the army's map-making Corps of Topographic Engineers—was the epitome of the snide, condescending officer. He would never forget how he had screamed at him, called him a dog and a liar, and accused him of shirking his duties.

This year, Warren opted to remain in the east, while the assignment to lead the Corp's last expedition was given to Captain Reynolds. In retrospect, Hayden would gladly return the one thousand dollars he had been paid and would be ecstatic if he could convince Warren to resume command. In Hayden's eyes, Reynolds had proven himself less experienced, more unpredictable, and more impossible. He found the man outrageously pompous, a righteous ass, a proselytizing religious fanatic, and a martinet. He vowed to never again take to the field under the command of an officer of the United States Army.

Small darts of orange flame from the willow fires reflected in Hayden's eyes like flashes of anger. From his blanket-shrouded position, he examined his commanding officer. I'm sorry, Captain, I don't know what you are talking about, he said in a tone devoid of emotion.

Sure you do, Hayden, prompted Reynolds discourteously. Didn't you hear my men? Or were you too wrapped up in your notebook? They believe we're at the end of our journey. They have no hope. They imply God has abandoned us.

Reynolds straightened, and his tone adopted the chill of the air as he added, But then, I forget; God is not a topic to which you give much thought, is it, sir? You are fundamentally a godless man, are you not, professor? One of those who believes that mankind is always alone, who believes that death is forever, and that this, he gestured to the frozen country with an open hand, is the only reality in the universe.

Hayden gazed momentarily into the sky where a few stars, appearing between the clouds, glistened like diamonds on black velvet. He then turned his gaze to his employer, but having nothing he wished to say, he permitted his eyes to soften as though contemplating a distant thought. He then resettled the blanket across his shoulders and resumed his note writing.

After Reynolds left, the man sitting next to Hayden, Anton Schornborn, said, You did well not to answer that fool, Herr Hayden. He may be in charge, but he is unworthy of respect.

Schornborn was Reynolds' artist and topographer. Hayden heard a good deal of anger in his companion's voice. He looked often to Hayden for conversation for they were the only two of German extraction on the expedition.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, an early sun cast deep blue shadows on crystal-white snowbanks. Hayden pulled on his boots and listened to distant calls of sandhill cranes. Jim Bridger, coffee cup in hand, looked into Hayden's tent. Sun's up, he said with a twinkle. Looks like God has returned.

A shadow suddenly appeared behind Bridger and Hayden heard the voice of Captain Reynolds once again. As soon as you're ready, Doctor, you, me, Mr. Bridger, and a few others are going to look for a way over the top. Without waiting for a response, the shadow disappeared. One side of Mr. Bridger's mouth lifted slightly, then he, too, disappeared.

An hour later, with Reynolds orchestrating everybody in general and no one in particular, the party examined the exposed rim of the volcanic ridge. They found traces of an old lodge trail and hundreds of lodge poles, evidence that Crow Indians had often used the upper valley to trap buffalo, but they found no pass. It appeared the ridge stretched across the head of the valley without a break.

Reynolds pointed to the strata that sealed the heights against access, and asked Hayden with exasperation, What is that stuff, Doctor?

Basalt, said Hayden. It's possible this ridge links the dividing crest of the Rocky Mountains to the Big Horn range.

Outstanding. Is the stuff good for anything?

No.

Marvelous, said Reynolds sarcastically.

Reynolds wanted to get across the Shoshone Mountains not only to penetrate the Yellowstone, but to rendezvous with his expedition's other half. At Fort Randall, not far from the great bend of the Missouri, he had instructed first Lieutenant Henry E. Maynardier to take half of the men and follow the Missouri to Three Forks, where the Jefferson, Madison, and Yellowstone Rivers converged. Reynolds would lead the other half due west, passed Devil's Tower, to Fort Sarpy, where the Yellowstone and the Big Horn Mountains merged. After having solved the problem of how the mountains and rivers merged above the Shoshone Mountains, he would meet Maynardier the following summer in the Yellowstone.

But with winter dogging his heels, Reynolds had turned south toward the Oregon Trail. From where they were camped, it was an easy ride to Fort Laramie. There, the men could enjoy the warmth of barracks and the camaraderie of other soldiers at the sutler's bar. Reynolds had no intention of returning to the states for the winter. Instead, he ordered his soldiers to build long houses—multi-chambered cabins with earthen floors, log walls, and a two-foot thick roof made of logs, brush, clay, and mortar, topped off by a foot of well-packed earth. While they were building, he ordered his civilians to redraw their maps and rewrite their notes.

Temperatures remained mild until the sixth of December. Then the temperature plummeted to minus twenty-five and the wind filled the air with minute particles of snow and ice. White crystals penetrated every building crack including an undiscovered crevice in Reynolds' quarters. The storm left snowdrifts as high as the roof while the Captain's room sprouted a thin bank of snow five feet high.

Reynolds decided his task for the remainder of the winter was to keep his men warm and provide them with a firm code of moral authority. He found the latter task difficult because time and time again they managed to locate whiskey and get drunk. When the Captain was not ranting against them or taking out his frustration on the godless Dr. Hayden, peace reigned, especially when everyone listened to Jim Bridger tell stories.

This winter reminds me of a nasty blow we had back in the thirties, said Bridger one evening as he packed his pipe. Me and a few of the boys were headed out to Jackson's Hole when we ran into a fellow we never seed before. The winter had gotten the best of him, pour soul. Said he was on his way back from a land of fossils when a late spring storm made him hole up. Don't think any of us was listenin' too careful until he showed us a petrified grasshopper. This fellow declared that within the valley where he had taken shelter, everything had been turned to stone—rabbits, sagebrush, snakes, and grasshoppers. He once sat up, shivering, with fire in his eyes, to describe bushes whose berries were made of raw diamonds, rubies, and sapphires.

Bridger glanced around the room. Now, he said, I never seed this valley, `cause where exactly it is was never determined, and the fellow died of fever the next morning. Me and the boys took a few days to backtrack his trail but didn't find nothin'. Dead ends. I have seed whole petrifacted trees, so I don't squint at a man who said he has seed more than me.

Bridger had been playing raconteur since his first days in the Rockies when he trapped beaver. Now into his fourth decade spreading Rocky Mountain lore, his tales flowed with a fine frontier flair. The line between fact, exaggeration, and pure fabrication had blurred long ago. In some cases, he realized the truth of an issue was no longer within his reach, so when someone had the gumption to question him, he replied it was rude and uncivilized to question a man's word. Besides, he would add, it's inconese. . . inconsectu. . . just a side track from where my tale's headin'.

To Bridger's mind, those who wanted to listen would listen; those who did not, well, that was their business. When the winter weather had been mild, he had remained a listener, partly because he was always on the lookout for a new tale. But after a month of map talk, military jabber, and religious hokey pokey, Bridger decided it was up to him to make the passing of chilled winter nights a mite more interesting.

The old mountain man had a simple philosophy of life: work all day if and when you have to, but once the campfire and pipes are lit and stars filled the sky, it's best to listen to the coyotes and get on with a tale or two. He had let the men in the log houses know his creed. He had also informed them that his experiences in the Upper Yellowstone, where they were headed, might be worth listening to.

Not long after Bridger's first night of tall tales, Captain Reynolds asked him to comment on the character of the land they might encounter in the Yellowstone. Bridger took the request as a sign he could sit back a bit and let the words flow. He barely got started before Reynolds interrupted him three times in as many minutes. After that, ole Gabe stuck his pipe firmly in his mouth and returned to his leather mending. After several proddings—which he returned with frosty silences—Reynolds took the hint and got as close to an apology as anyone had ever heard. I have nothing more to ask, Mr. Bridger. We'd be happy to hear you tell it your way.

The only way I know, said Bridger, still miffed. If I miss a fact or two, I'll be happy to fill in at the end. No one could determine exactly when or where his story began, but the mountain man took his audience on a trapper's journey up the Green River into Jackson's Hole. From there, no one could discern how he found his way to the Yellowstone. Bridger's reference points were familiar only to him, and no map of the region existed.

Never mind all this map and route stuff, said Bridger as he scraped his pipe bowl with obvious irritation. We'll get there, and when we do, you best watch where you put your feet, 'cause sometimes the earth ain't too solid. When you walk, smoke and steam may suddenly fill your path, or the land might start shaking and spout water where there had been nothing before, or a trail might lead into a canyon deep enough to swallow an echo.

No one wanted to ask where the smoke came from, how high the water spurted, or how deep the canyon was. The images sufficed, and wasn't that the point of it all anyway, to listen to a tale and let your imagination run?

Once in the Yellowstone, said Bridger, pausing to spit, I crossed a spring that gushed from a hillside. Nothin' special there; I'd seen hundreds of springs, all cold enough to numb a bullet wound. But this one run so fast and so far downhill, by the time the water hit bottom it was hot. Yes sir. I nearly blistered my toes when I mistook it for a place to cool my heels.

You spoke earlier of hot springs and jets of water, said Hayden one evening. Would you expand a bit on their character?

Glad to. What you got is a valley big enough for a two thousand lodge pole village, a land filled with smoking holes and water-filled pools hot enough to cook in. Most o' them pools are round and smell like sulfur, and the water in 'em tastes bitter. Some are close to the river, so after you catch yerself a trout, you can toss him over your head without taking him off of the line and boil him for dinner. Bridger's eyes floated across the faces of his audience, but no one blinked or donned a sheepish smile.

Now them water jets are harder to come across, because they just up and spout or they don't, and there's no tellin' when or where. But once I seed a body of water as thick as a man throwed higher than the flagpole in Virginia City, and it weren't no single spurt neither, but a whale's blow hole that never did stop.

And where did all that water go, Mr. Bridger? asked Reynolds.

Well, it naturally jes' come back to earth and run down the hill. But it wasn't good water. You could tell right off, 'cause nothing growed around any of those holes till you walked beyond the size took up by the circle of a forty-family-wagon-train.

The long winter depleted Bridger's array of favorite recountables. Toward spring, he was forced to recall a few he had not told in years. The ones he was asked to repeat or expound on he didn't much mind retelling, 'cause they all dealt with the Yellowstone country.

Hayden noted that Captain Reynolds took private delight in Bridger's stories. To the men, he dismissed the guide's dialogue as Munchhausen tales, and confessed only that he was impressed that the man could carry such an array of entertainment in his mind and tell such incredible stories without having to pause to think or swallow. But when Reynolds and Hayden were alone, they discussed the probable scientific character of the phenomena Bridger described. Reynolds agreed with Hayden that they matched the hot springs and geysers of Iceland.

Nothing more of the Yellowstone was said after the expedition broke winter camp and crossed the Big Horns into the Wind River Valley. Now, on this early day of June, Reynolds was discovering the truth of Bridger's predictions they could never cross the head of the Wind Rivers this time of year.

Then we will find a way around, stated Reynolds flatly. We’re not goin' back. Lead on. Jim Bridger knew a hard-headed person when he saw one, so he took the Captain to the foot of a pass high in the Wind Rivers. From horseback, Bridger pointed to the top of the snowy slope. This route was always the easiest way to Jackson's Hole from the Wind, he said. And from Jackson's Hole you can get to the Yellowstone. I just wouldn't advise it trying it now.

But it will take us to the Yellowstone, will it not? asked Reynolds.

Bridger scratched his head. Well, you can get anywhere you want to by following the right path, but you ain't gonna slog your way to the Yellowstone through this.

No? Well, let's see.

The party of nine, which included Hayden and Bridger, pushed through nearly three feet of snow as they moved up slope. The sun was up but the land still slept under a winter blanket. The air that flowed toward them from the pass above was heavy and cold. Half-way up the slope, their horses encountered a hidden crust of ice. Each time they stepped forward, the crust broke. It's sharp edges dug into fetlocks and shins. The horses shied and foundered.

Reynolds dismounted and tied his horse to a scrub pine. He examined the slope before him, kicked at the snow in frustration, then pushed himself through hip-deep powder. No one else moved. After ten paces, Reynolds turned, and with an angry eye, growled, Well, are you coming or not?

Nine reluctant men waddled up the slope. Fallen trees buried in the snow were avoided; the snow around the tree trunks was softer, so it was easier to fall through. The first time Reynolds sank to his waist, it took several minutes of short-tempered shouting before everyone discovered the trapped person had to go it alone. Like thin ice, anyone who got close enough to lend a fellow a hand, also broke through.

Men were heard to exclaim Damn! or worse, as they disappeared, sometimes to the neck. After two successive disasters, Reynolds began to crawl on his belly. Jim Bridger stared in disbelief until he saw several others adopt the technique. With the thought he had done sillier things in his life, he shrugged and got down on his belly. When a snowshoe hare peered at him from the shadow of a pine log, Bridger stared back. Don't you say a damn word, he muttered to the hare.

The snow was much thinner near the top than it had been on the shoulder, and the thin crust disappeared. The problem of deep snow  was replaced by a gale wind which made wind-chill dangerous to those who were wet with perspiration. Two men built a fire at the base of a large tree. Others stomped to stay warm.

Capitan Reynolds turned to Jim Bridger. Now, Mr. Bridger, if you know where we are, will you please point out the Yellowstone.

Hayden was standing with his back to a lodge pole pine in a small hollow just below the summit. The sun was high, the sky a deep blue. The wind that numbed his cheeks carried the redolence of pine and a frigid earth. He looked north and west, straining to see signs of mysterious happenings and bizarre formations about which Jim Bridger had spoken. It was his first glimpse of the horizon that marked the Yellowstone.

AS REYNOLDS ASKED BRIDGER his question, Hayden held a hand above his eyes to cut the glare. The wind pushed tears into the corners of his eyes which then streaked his cheeks. Without wind or the cold, those tears might have been a sign of a deep inner emotion. A few nights earlier, young Jim Stevenson had tugged on Hayden's sleeve while he was writing about a new plant. Do you really believe that stuff Mr. Bridger has been saying about the Yellowstone, Doc?

Hayden looked up. Yes, Jim, I do; all of it. Nature works miracles; man remains ignorant of her ways and her powers. In the ensuing silence, he put his pencil down. The only way we will ever learn anything new is to explore and document. Our work will help others discover the truth and thus understand our country. I have told you this is how I intend to spend my life—unveiling the West. If you work with me, that will be your life, too.

Stevenson remained silent. Someday, continued Hayden as he returned to his notes, we will walk the Yellowstone, breach her mountain passes, taste her waters, and watch her water jets rise from the ground. He looked up with an expectant smile.

Stevenson turn away with the same skeptical expression Hayden had seen in the faces of his peers when he was in college. At Oberlin, dirt-poor Hayden had been the butt of jokes. His classmates were forever snickering to one another, There goes Hayden, the dreamer. He'll never amount to anything.

The response of Bridger's harsh voice broke Hayden's reverie. Damn right I know where we are, Captain. We are on top of the divide between the Wind River Mountains and Jackson's Hole. The Yellowstone is off that way. He pointed north-northwest into a world of featureless snow drifts and frozen peaks.

Reynolds shouted into the wind: This is the heart of the Wind River Mountains, and the Wind River Mountains is the heart of the Rockies. I name this Union Pass in the name of the United States.

As Hayden followed Bridger's finger to a jagged, blue-white horizon, he tried to conjure up a distant range in the northwest. He believed he could just make it out: The Yellowstone. Tumblers clicked into place as a certainty gripped him. He was meant to go there! He shivered, not from the cold but from a nebulous fear. He wasn't certain he feared more, what he might need to endure to reach the Yellowstone, or that upon his arrival, he would find the Yellowstone was nothing more than a trapper's fabrication.

Winter snow drifts held all the cards this day, but in the long run it did not matter; he vowed he would conquer his fear and put the mysteries of the Yellowstone to rest forever. And with that thought, he stopped shivering.

Chapter 2: July, 1869, A Railroad Survey

Saint Cloud, Minnesota , was a lousy place to be the afternoon of July second. The temperature was a steamy mid-eighties, and a thin farmer's rain fell from a seamless, grey sky. Nathaniel P. Langford  of Montana stood under the roof of a covered walkway that fronted the last store on the western edge of town. He had been standing there for fifteen minutes. During that time the drumming of rain on the tin roof had been increasingly drowned out by the splatter of runoff into the street. Langford was six-foot-two, made six-foot-four by his new boot heels. His prominent forehead, devoid of hair, contrasted with the bristle of a full, black beard. Over casual clothes he wore a rain slicker, riding chaps that reached his pointed boots, and a wide brim hat. Standing in the shadows, partially obscured by the rain, the frontiersman looked a bit fierce. In truth, he was a well-mannered frontier banker.

Langford shook raindrops from his slicker, glanced at his pocket watch, then looked over his shoulder with the hope his brother-in-law would emerge from the store. No one could go anywhere without Marshall. He was the leader. Langford was certain his relative was talking politics again.

He worked a small wad of tobacco into his cheek as he surveyed the line of spring wagons across the street. Each had a four-horse team, a hump of tarp-covered supplies, and four passengers. Every horse faced the rain with its head down. The majority of the men in the wagons looked as downcast as the horses. Langford doubted there was a dry bone among them.

It would not do to wait much longer, he thought. In fact, he fully expected one of the men would stand up at any moment and say, This is bullshit!, and walk to the nearest bar. And that would be it. Even if everyone toughed it out, he was ready to take odds the group would not hold together long enough to see the Fourth of July. They were tenderfoots, soft-palmed easterners; congressman, reporters, and a few wealthy businessmen. Langford could hear their joyless mutterings. He figured they were asking one another what the hell they were doing here. They were not used to waiting, especially in the rain.

Langford doubted they were used to any of what awaited them in the coming week. But who went on this expedition, what each man expected, and how well each put up with unfulfilled expectations was not his concern. This was Marshall's party. His brother-in-law had simply asked him to come along. The telegram sent to him in Helena a week ago, ended with, Come on, Tan; I need a good man.

Tan was Nathaniel Langford's nickname of long standing, one only relatives and close friends used. When the telegram arrived, he was between jobs, and Marshall said he would pay for his travel. Tan telegraphed back he would come. He had to admit he was curious; Marshall's message implied that somewhere down the line the trip might pay off for him, and Marshall's word was usually good. It should be; after all, he was the governor of Minnesota.

The door of the store slammed, and Langford heard Marshall's voice. Then the governor placed a hand on Langford's shoulder and shouted to the pack train. All right, let's go! He walked through the rain and clambered into the lead spring wagon.

Langford wiped rain from his saddle, mounted his horse, and fell into line. His butt was wet, his beard was wet, and he was positive every space between raindrops was occupied by a mosquito. Sitting on a wagon seat all day in eighty-five-degree heat under a day-long rain might push even a peaceful man to the edge. It was a lousy day to start anything, much less a railroad survey across Minnesota.

He brushed a mosquito from his nose and saw water spurt from beneath a wagon wheel. Well, he thought, they could all get drunk. They certainly did not lack for anything in the way of comfort. Marshall had thought of everything. And why not; he didn't have to pay for it. That rich Philadelphian banker, Jay Cooke, was footing the bill.

Yesterday, Rudy—the old-timer in the warehouse—said the whole business looked a bit phony. Rudy was loading supplies for the excursion. Langford helped because Marshall had asked him to, in part because Tan he wasn't a congressman, a reporter, or a member of the Northern Pacific Railroad Company.

Rudy couldn't work if it was too quiet. Who all is going on this so-called hunting trip? he asked. General Grant? And where in the hell do they think they are going? The Rocky Mountains?

Langford checked off eight wall tents and two hospital tents. He wasn't sure the old fellow wanted answers, not when he supplied his own. But when Rudy stopped working and stared at him, Langford responded that hunting was secondary to the real purpose. It's a survey, said Langford. A survey for a railroad.

Bosh; said the packer, eyeing a half-dozen expensive fishing rods.

Well, the governor is trying to accommodate a few congressmen.

Oh, said Rudy. Then I guess you're still waiting.

For what? asked Langford. The congressman? No, they're all here.

The stagecoaches, offered the wrinkled man. He spat, then rolled a dozen rifles into a large tarp. You ain't telling me them congressmen is gonna ride spring wagons that don’t have no roof, are ya? There gonna get wet, sore-butted, and all bit up this time of year.

I guess stranger things have happened, said Langford with a smile.

Not in Saint Cloud, they haven't, said Rudy with finality, and he ejected another brown wad to punctuate his words.

AFTER TWO WET DAYS