Our conversation now, without being angry, became very earnest, and I fully explained why I could not sell to any man upon credit. “Oh, well,” said he, with a significant toss of the head, “I guess you’ll let _me_ have it.” “Certainly not,” I replied. “Why should I let you have it sooner than another?” “Then I guess you don’t know who I am,” he quickly rejoined, fixing his keen dark eyes on me. “No, I don’t; but if I did, it could make no difference.” “Well,” he continued, in an authoritative tone and manner, “my name is Slade.” It so happened that I had never heard of him, being wholly engrossed with business, so I replied, laughingly, “I don’t know now, any better than before.” “You must have heard of Slade of the Overland.” “Never before,” I said. The reply seemed to annoy him. He gave me a look of mingled doubt and wonder, which, had it taken the form of words, would have said, “You are either trying to fool me, or are yourself a fool.” No doubt he thought it strange that I should never have heard of a man who had been so conspicuous in mountain history. “Well,” he said, “if you do not know me, ask any of the boys who I am, and they will inform you. I’m going to have this lumber; that is dead sure,” and with an air of much importance, he moved to a group of eight or ten men that had just come out of Skinner’s saloon, all of whom were _attachés_ of his. “Come, boys,” said he, “load up the wagon.” Several of my friends were standing near, and the matter between us had fully ripened for a conflict. At this moment, John Ely, an old friend, elbowed his way through the crowd, and learning the cause of the difficulty, told me to let Slade have the lumber, and he would see that I was paid the next day. I readily consented. Ely then took me aside and informed me of the desperate character of Slade, and advised me to avoid him, as he was drunk, and would certainly shoot me at our next meeting.