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APRIL 7, in Glen Rose. All efforts to locate suitable sauropod trails on West Verde Creek having proven futile, Dr. Sellards had made arrangements to have a quarry opened in the bed of the Paluxy. I drove down to the courthouse square before eight the next morning. A new crew of men was gathered by the little white limestone building. Some sat in the shade on benches, others stood about in the parking area. 33 I recognized John Mathews from before, among the standing group. He was old, grizzled, nearly toothless, but there was a strength of character and a toughness about his wiry frame and a twinkle in his eyes. If I needed a foreman at times when I might be away from the job, John would be my man. In tattered, faded overalls and wearing a slouch hat that had seen the very last of its best days, he fit in well with the rest ofthe group. A good number came from Cleburne, nearly forty miles away. They were drawn by promise of a steady job while it lasted, plenty to drink-we'd be working in the bed of the Paluxy River-and good pay: a dollar a day. Ones with special skills, like with rock drill or sledge and chisel, might rise to $1.25. John recognized the old Buick as I came around the corner. He waved and gathered the group together. Manuel Gosset and Monroe Eaton, young men in their twenties, were with him, as well as a tubby character from Bono, a cross-roads settlement on the way down. There was Tommy Pendley, a young family man in his twenties, and Oscar Moxon, and John's brother, Sam. "Well, boss, we're all here," Mathews greeted me. "Leastwise, all but Harry Shoemaker, and he'll be here if he kin whup his old car this far. Where's them dinosour tracks? We're rarin' to go!" We piled into the cars, and as I swung the old Buick away from the curb a four-wheeled clatter bore down on us. It was Harry Shoemaker in his Model T. "You'd better git that old rattletrap into the parade ," Mathews shouted. "We waited fer you this time, but we wasn't gonna wait much more." The river was up at the first ford, higher than I'd ever seen it. The old Buick swam through fearlessly ; she had done this all before. In the rear view mirror I watched the cavalcade behind me dunk in and pull out, streaming water from their running boards. By the time the last car had drained its floorboards, the first car had nosed into the second crossing. And in another minute or so we headed down the live oak lane on the bluff at Jim Ryals's place. He looked up in surprise at three dripping cars loaded with manpower, picks, shovels and paraphernalia. "I told you I'd be back one of these days," I called out. "This is the first one of them." We parked the cars on the bluff before the fourth crossing. In the back of the Buick were the tools we had used on Davenport Ranch, plus around a hundred and fifty burlap bags. "We'll need all of those bags and three or four shovels," I said. The prints I had come upon on that first day were of course mud-filled again. I wished that I could have had at hand then the resources I had now. I explained to the crew a little something about dinosaurs and dinosaur tracks. Most of them knew the three-toed tracks for what they were; probably a few of them had chosen track-removal in preference to cedar post-cutting and moonshining a time or two in their pasts. But this was the first spot in the world where the big sauropod tracks were recognized for what they were. "To start off, we'll have to build a coffer dam," I told the group, "so we can shut out the water. After we get a look at what we have here, we'll know what to do next. First, let's get rid of a lot of this mud and sand by stuffing it in the bags." Actually , there was lots of good sand on the bluff above the ledge. I produced a sacking needle and a ball of twine and gave them to Moxon. "You look like a good man to sew them...

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