While we were engaged in skinning this animal, Warden remarked he was surprised at my using rifles of so large a bore, as it was a settled fact that the long Kentucky rifles, one of which he carried, produced much greater effect with small bullets. I contradicted this assertion, and an argument ensued, as neither would give up his opinion. Warden offered a wager, and staked his rifle against one of mine, which I accepted. We cut off the buffalo's head with the skin attached to it, and had it carried to the fort with the meat, in order to try our rifles on it. It was noon when we got back. We cleaned ourselves and enjoyed our dinner, a buffalo fillet roasted on the spit, and some of the marrow-bones.
After drinking coffee and smoking a cigar, we carried the buffalo head outside the fort, put it in front of an oak, pressed a piece of white paper on the forehead, and then walked eighty paces back, I shot first, and my bullet passed through the paper into the head, and an inch deep into the oak. Warden fired next, and also sent his bullet into the piece of paper, but there was no trace of the bullet on the tree behind the head. We removed the skin from the skull and found Warden's bullet lodged under it, close to the hole which mine had made. Warden at once allowed the bet lost, but at the same time requested me to sell him a gun, as he could not exist without one. I naturally laughed, as my only object in the matter was conviction, and the bet had only been a joke. Warden, however, shot with surprising accuracy at one hundred yards with his rifle, which was four feet and a half long, the whole weight resting on the left hand in front; but his ball rarely passed through a deer, except when he was close to it.
After supper, while we were lying on the grass on the river bank, my guest told me that he was a native of Missouri, the son of a farmer, but had been compelled by unfortunate circumstances to quit home, and had been living for five years as a desert hunter. At first he remained on the frontiers of his own State, but the cold winters had continually driven him to the south, until he at last got so far down to a country whose climate agreed better with him. He remained a whole week with me, and made himself useful during the day through his skill in making all sorts of trifles; for instance, carvings in poplar and cypress wood, plaiting strong tight lines of different coloured horsehair, tanning skins, making neatly ornamental powder flasks out of buffalo horns, and charge measures of the fangs of bears and jaguars, while in the evening he described in a most lively manner the numerous dangers he had fortunately escaped, and the many fights he had had with the Redskins during the five years.
The unchanging calmness which usually covered his noble face often deserted him when describing these scenes; his eyes flashed like daggers in the moonlight, his brow contracted, and we could read on his forehead that he must be a terrible foe when aroused. But these outbursts of passion soon passed away, and the ordinary gentleness spread once more over his features. Among the feelings reflected on various occasions in his face, there was an unmistakeable melancholy, which must be produced by events of his life before the period when he bade farewell to human society, and this was proved by the fact that he spoke reluctantly about that time, and always became silent when the conversation was accidentally turned to it. Hence I carefully avoided alluding to the period, for if a heavy crime lay hid in his bosom, I was ready to excuse it; while if he was suffering undeservedly, I pitied him, and would not augment his sorrow by unnecessarily evoking his reminiscences.
I would have gladly kept him with me, as he was a pleasant, attractive companion in my solitude; but he would go, and it seemed to me as if the tranquillity he enjoyed at my house did not permanently satisfy him, and as if he wished to deaden memory by the wild, perilous life he led on his hunting expeditions. I equipped him as far as lay in my power with everything that could soothe his fatiguing life, and took a hearty leave of him in front of the fort. He parted regretfully, and was greatly excited when he shook my hand in farewell and mounted his powerful horse, which he had trained like a dog. He promised to pay me another visit soon, and galloped at such a pace over the prairie, as if he wished thus to dispel the thoughts which had mastered him. I watched him for a long distance, till he disappeared in a cloud of dust on the edge of the prairie.
Some time after I learned from the bee-hunter whom Trusty received so savagely the history of this amiable but unfortunate man, whom the former had known as a lad in Missouri. Warden's father was the son of one of the first families in Virginia; was educated at a first-rate school and studied medicine. He got into bad company, turned gambler and then highwayman, and was for some years the terror of post travellers in North Carolina and Virginia. About this time he fell in love with a very beautiful, fashionably educated young lady in Virginia, and ran away with her to Missouri, which was just beginning to be colonized. He altered his mode of life, was greatly respected by his fellow-citizens, and in a few years sent to Congress as deputy for Missouri. Thus he lived most creditably till his son was twelve years of age, and his daughter was married at the age of seventeen to a farmer. One day, however, he rode to the nearest town where a court was being held, and for the first time during many years tasted spirits. He had scarce done so, ere his old wicked foe seized on him again with all its might, and he rode daily, in spite of all the prayers and representations of his family, to the town, and returned at night in a most frightful state of intoxication.
On the next court day he was about to ride again to town, when his wife begged her son-in-law to accompany him. Warden had been drinking already, and said he had a feeling he should be killed during the day. He made his young son take a solemn oath to follow his murderer to the end of the world and take his life. Then he rode off to the town, soon became intoxicated, began quarrelling, at length began wrangling with his son-in-law, who tried to hold him back, and drew his knife on him; the latter defended himself, and Warden ran on his knife, and was carried home in a dying state. Warden once again reminded his son of the oath he had taken, and expired. The law was put in work against his son-in-law, who fled to Indiana and lived there in concealment. Warden's son grew up, and in his sixteenth year was the favourite of the whole countryside, but then he took his rifle and his horse, bade good-bye to his mother and sister, rode to Indiana, and shot his brother-in-law in his own house. He escaped from the police with great difficulty, and fled to the desert, where he had been living five years when he visited me.