“Just as I thought,” he replied; “you’re the very man who sold the lumber to Slade. We boys thought Slade would shoot you, when you refused to trust him for the boards. He came pretty near doing it, and it wa’n’t a bit like him not to. I was one of the teamsters then, and we all expected a big row about it, and stood by, ready to pitch in. I ain’t that kind of a man now, but things were different then, and anybody that worked for Slade, if he wished to escape being shot, had to stand by him in a fight. I never knew why Slade didn’t shoot you, but there was never any telling what he would do, and what he wouldn’t. Sometimes it was one thing and sometimes another, just as the notion took him; but if he ever was put down by a man, which wasn’t often, he always seemed to remember it, and was civil to him afterwards. You were in mighty big luck to get out of the scrape as you did.” In illustration of this latter peculiarity, an incident is related of Slade, which occurred during that portion of his life passed on the Overland Stage route. He and one Bob Scott, a somewhat noted man of the time, had become interested in a set-to at poker; game followed game, and drink followed drink. Both were exhilarated by liquor, bets grew larger, and finally in one game each had “raised” the other till Slade’s money was exhausted. Slade pointed to the piles of coin heaped upon the table, exclaiming, “Bob, that money belongs to me.” “It does if the cards say so,” said Bob, “not otherwise.” “Perhaps,” rejoined Slade, “my cards are not better than yours; but,” drawing his revolver and pointing it at Scott, “my _hand is_.” Scott glanced at him with amazement, and for a moment both parties were silent. At length Slade reached forward to pull down the pile of double eagles and transfer them to his pocket, when, with the quickness of lightning, Scott pushed aside the pistol with one hand, and dealt his antagonist a stunning blow between the eyes with the other. Slade fell, and Scott fell on him, and gave him a severe drubbing, only permitting him to rise on his promising to behave himself. The game was renewed and no reference made to the fight, until Slade, thoroughly sobered, quietly remarked, “Well, Bob, if you’d pounded me about two minutes longer, I’d have got sober sooner.”