When Charlie quit riding and started painting for a living, some of his friends advised him to change his way of dress and get some city togs. That he would not do. He never liked suspenders or shoes and never wore them. He disliked fashion and said it was just an imitation of someone else. He always wore a good Stetson hat, a nice sash, and a good pair of boots—even after he had quit the range. It reminds me of two city men I knew had come to a cow ranch on business and had an old-time cowboy taking them around. One day they were discussing the beauties of nature and when each one decided what he thought was the most beautiful thing he ever saw one of them asked the cowboy his idea of beauty. He promptly answered, “The prettiest thing I ever saw was a four year old fat steer,” and he may have been right, as nature had given the steer everything it had to make it beautiful in its class, and he knew he was a steer and was satisfied with his lot and didn’t pretend to be anything but what he was. That was the way I knew Charlie. He loved nature and the West and was Western from the soles of his feet to the top of his head and had the finest principle and the greatest philosophy I ever knew in anybody. Charlie told me one of the worst troubles he had was some fellow would rush up to him and say, “Hello, Charlie, I am sure glad to see you.” Charlie would say, “I am glad to see you, too,” and to save his life he couldn’t place him. He would talk to him about everything he could think of, hoping the fellow would say something that would refresh his memory but usually without any success, and he said he had to be very careful to not say “No” or “Yes” in the wrong place and give himself away. I remember, when I went back to Montana from Cripple Creek, Colorado, in 1894, I came into town (Cascade, Montana—where Charlie was living) in a box car, but didn’t tell Charlie how I arrived. In the few years I was away from Montana, Charlie heard I had been killed by a horse. I didn’t know anything about that report. So when I walked into his cabin we shook hands and had quite a talk—and, of course I thought he knew who I was. He was sitting by the stove frying bacon and I caught him looking at me in a sort of a puzzled way and I knew at once he didn’t know who I was. So I said to him, “You don’t know me.” He said, “Yes, I do.” “Well, who am I then?” He said, “If I didn’t know Con Price was dead, I would say you was him.” While I was with Charlie that time, just in fun he had me pose for him in a stage hold-up. I had a sawed-off shot-gun, big hat and my pants legs inside my boots. We found an old Prince Albert coat somewhere that I wore and a big handkerchief around my neck. I surely looked tough. He sure got a kick out of that model.