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T HE LETTER READ, in part, "Carl Sorensen is leaving for Wyoming, in charge of an advance party, on the twenty-fifth of May. If you care to join the expedition at Howe Q " uarry ... The year was 1934. The letterhead was that of the American Museum's Department of Paleontology , the signature below the typing, "Barnum Brown." The message I had hoped for for five long months was in hand. IfI left Florida in the next five days, I should arrive at the Howe Quarry at about the same time as the advance party. Impatience rode with me on the way west. About noon of the day Sorensen and his boys were to put in appearance, the Harley and I struggled up the rise of the rough little road leading to the Howe Ranch. Four patches of white dotted the little valley beyond the corral: tents, stark against the green alfalfa, like handkerchiefs laid out to dry in the sun. The New York party was already in. I bounced and rattled down the rocky grade toward the ranch gate, scanning the hill above the corral for signs of men or movement, dismayed that I might have arrived too late for the opening of Brown's cache of bones. A wisp ofsmoke rising straight from the ranch house chimney indicated perhaps everyone was at dinner. I opened the yard gate, drove through, paused to close the gate with great impatience. A green Buick touring car was parked under the cottonwoods near the corral. Next to it, a Ford truck with closed body. I drew up beside the cars, a few feet from the nearest tent. Hearing voices, I raised the tent flap and looked in. Carl Sorensen, seated at the head of a new pine table, saw me at once. "Glad you found us," he said. "Brown said you'd probably drop in about the time we got here. Let me introduce the rest. Ted Lewis . . . Dan Thrapp ... Bill Frutchey." 7 47 Lewis, tallest of the three and the only one who might be called well-groomed, stood up to shake hands, picking up a new pearl-grey Stetson from a nearby chair as he did so. "The noticeable lack of industry which you may detect," he said, "is, we hope, temporary and due to waiting to see Frutchey wash the dishes." The boy Frutchey, a stocky, black-haired youngster still seated at the table, laughed loudly. "They've all got it in for me," he said. ''I'm the cook, and nobody appreciates me." Thrapp didn't enter into the conversation, looking on and listening with quiet amusement, an unobtrusive, easy-going sort. Frutchey put an armload of dirty dishes on a box next to a gasoline stove outside. I noticed he wore knee breeches and what appeared to be golf socks with a pair ofheavy, square-toed shoes. Lewis came out ofthe tent behind him, smiling satirically. "Bet Frutchey's the first camp cook you ever saw wearing ski boots," he remarked. For my camp, I picked a spot just north of the tents, a stone's throw from the hill where the dinosaur bones lay buried. Each day I'd have only a few steps to walk to reach the winding path up the steep flank on the little hill. I hurried with my unpacking , still half-afraid I might miss the uncovering of the skeletons. Lewis and Thrapp were nowhere in sight, and I wondered if they might have already gone up the hill. Then I caught sight of Carl down among the cottonwoods, nailing up a small shelf to hold a wash basin. Nearby, Frutchey was washing dishes. Carl finished his job, and started walking leisurely toward the last tent in the row, and I hurried to intercept him. "Well, I'm ready," I said, "anytime you are." "Ready? For what?" "Why ... to start uncovering bones." Carl laughed. "Don't push us; we just got here," he said. "Now, let's see ... tomorrow's Saturday . We'd just as well spend the weekend resting up from the trip and doing what needs to be done around camp." I must have looked both downcast and embarrassed. Carl laid a hand on my shoulder and shook me playfully. "Don't take it so hard," he said. "You'll see enough bones before the summer is over." I inquired about Brown and Pete Kaisen. Brown, Carl said, would be along about June twentieth. Kaisen had been taken ill...

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