Charles Hazelius Sternberg lived almost a century, dying in 1943 in Lawrence, Kansas. Even in his last years he was still preparing fossils, writing, and advising younger collectors. By then his sons had carried on the trade, his specimens filled museums from New York to London, and his own name had become part of the history of paleontology. He was one of the last of the old field men, men who had hunted bone with picks and burlap, eating antelope and sleeping under canvas, sending their finds east by wagon and rail.

The “dinosaur mummy” from Converse County remained his most famous prize. Even now, more than a hundred years later, it still raises questions. The skeleton lay in swimming pose, body stretched, forelimbs spread, tail trailing behind. Along the rock were broad patches of preserved hide, pebbled scales, and thin sheets of webbing between the fingers. It was as if the animal had been overtaken mid-stroke, buried instantly before scavengers or currents could scatter it.

What was it doing there? The beds in that country were laid down in the last days of the Cretaceous, when rivers and bayous cut through forests of magnolia and cypress. Perhaps this animal had waded into one of those channels to feed, using its broad bill to strip plants from the banks. Perhaps it fled into the water to escape a predator. The skeleton tells only the end: a sudden collapse, mud sealing it over, time pressing it into stone.

For Sternberg, the find carried another weight. He had long spoken of his daughter Maude, his favorite he called her, who died at 20 years old, but lived in his dreams. He wrote of walking ancient shorelines with her at his side, her voice pointing him to the places where fossils lay. The dinosaur mummy felt like one of those dreams made real, an animal drowned in a Cretaceous river, found because he had refused to leave the country until the land gave up its secret.