of the Anthonys. In spite of my years, I still enjoy a good saddle
horse, scarcely a day passing but I ride from ten to twenty miles.
There is a range maxim that "the eyes of the boss make a fat horse,"
and at deliveries of cattle, rounds-ups, and branding, my mere
presence makes things move with alacrity. I can still give the boys
pointers in handling large bodies of cattle, and the ranch outfits
seem to know that we old-time cowmen have little use for the modern
picturesque cowboy, unless he is an all-round man and can deliver the
goods in any emergency.

With but a few years of my allotted span yet to run, I find myself
in the full enjoyment of all my faculties, ready for a romp with my
grandchildren or to crack a joke with a friend. My younger girls are
proving splendid comrades, always ready for a horseback ride or a trip
to the city. It has always been a characteristic of the Anthony family
that they could ride a horse before they could walk, and I find the
third generation following in the footsteps of their elders. My
grandsons were all expert with a rope before they could read, and it
is one of the evidences of a merciful providence that their lives have
been spared, as it is nearly impossible to keep them out of mischief
and danger. To forbid one to ride a certain dangerous horse only
serves to heighten his anxiety to master the outlaw, and to banish
him from the branding pens means a prompt return with or without
an excuse. On one occasion, on the Double Mountain ranch, with the
corrals full of heavy cattle, I started down to the pens, but met two
of my grandsons coming up the hill, and noticed at a glance that there
had been trouble. I stopped the boys and inquired the cause of their
tears, when the youngest, a barefooted, chubby little fellow, said to
me between his sobs, "Grandpa, you'd--you'd--you'd better keep away
from those corrals. Pa's as mad as a hornet, and--and--and he quirted
us--yes, he did. If you fool around down there, he'll--he'll--he'll
just about wear you out."

Should this transcript of my life ever reach the dignity of
publication, the casual reader, in giving me any credit for success,
should bear in mind the opportunities of my time. My lot was cast with
the palmy days of the golden West, with its indefinable charm, now
past and gone and never to return. In voicing this regret, I desire
to add that my mistakes are now looked back to as the chastening
rod, leading me to an appreciation of higher ideals, and the final
testimony that life is well worth the living.