The intimate, human memories regarding Charles M. Russell, his genius and eccentricities, which Frank Linderman set down shortly after the death of his good friend, constitute a miscellany of personal insights for which any of Russell's biographers ought to have given his eyeteeth. But in none of the increasingly frequent Russell commentaries, apparently, has use ever been made of these prime source materials.When Russell and Linderman met, it was to be expected a close friendship would result. Their interests, experiences, and natural inclinations were of the same cloth. They loved untrammeled people in virgin country; they had high regard for the old-time Indian and his mores; they held the encroachments upon the old West of civilization's less laudable aspects in mutual disdain; and, finally, Linderman with words and Russell with paint and clay were professional artists concerned in the re-creation of a beloved time fast slipping away.These recollections of their shared campfires, trails, conversations, and fun constitute the finest portrait extant of Charley Russell, the human being, pulsing with personality, quip, and many of his well-known tall tales.
