There was an old-time cowboy and cowman—lived at Gilroy, California, that I knew for twenty years. His name was Ed Willson. He is dead now—but when I recall the many kindnesses he extended to me in those years I knew him, it has burned a brand on my memory that time cannot blot out. He was as rough and tough as a grizzly bear, and to know him on the surface meant you didn’t know him at all. My wife and I had eaten Christmas dinner with him and his family for several years and he had planned for it again the year he died. He had been quite sick for a long time but came to see me on the sand of December with an invitation to come again to the Christmas dinner. I was sick in bed and told him we would come if I was able, but I got worse and on Christmas day could not get up. He was also in bed on that day—but when noontime came and we didn’t show up he had his wife, Pal, fix up a tray of turkey dinner and bring it in and show it to him. He smiled and said, “that ought to cure the old son-of-a-gun.” He had it sent three miles to my home. He died a few days after. I never saw him after he came to give me the invitation. That is just one of the many kind considerations that the old-time cowboy had for the other fellow—and I believe if they were organized they would be the greatest fraternity on earth. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Memories of Old Montana, by Con Price