A Man with Two Lives by Ambrose Bierce. Here is a queer story of
David William Duck, related by himself. Duck is an old man living in
Aurora, Illinois, where he is universally respected. He is commonly known,
however, as Dead Duck. In the autumn of eighteen sixty six, I
was a private soldier in the eighteenth Infantry. My company was one of those
stationed at Fort phil Kearney, commanded by Colonel Carrington. The country is more
or less familiar with the history of that garrison, particularly with the slaughter by
the Sioux of a detachment of eighty one men in officers, no one escaping
through disobedience of orders by its commander, the brave but reckless Captain Fetterman.
When that occurred, I was trying to make my way with important dispatches to
Fort C. F. Smith on the Big Horn, as the country swarmed
with hostile Indians. I traveled by night and concealed myself as best I could
before daybreak. The better to do so, I went afoot, armed with
a Henry rifle and carrying three days rations in my haversack. For my second
place of concealment. I chose what seemed in the darkness a narrow canyon leading
through a range of rocky hills. It contained many large boulders detached from the
slopes of the hills. Behind one of these, in a clump of sagebrush,
I made my bed for the day, and soon fell asleep. It
seemed as if I had hardly closed my eyes, though in fact it was
nearly midday when I was awakened by the report of a rifle, the bullet
striking the boulder just above my body. The band of Indians had trailed me
and had me nearly surrounded. The shot had been fired with an execrable aim
by a fellow who had caught sight of me from the hillside above. The
smoke of his rifle betrayed him, and I was no sooner on my feet
than he was off his and rolling down the declivity. Then I ran,
in a stooped posture, dodging among the clumps of sagebrush, in a storm
of bullets from invisible enemies. The rascals did not rise and pursue, which
I thought rather queer, for they must have known by my trail that they
had to deal with only one man. The reason for their inaction was soon
made clear. I had not gone a hundred yards before I reached the limit
of my run. The head of the gulch, which I had mistaken for
a canyon. It terminated in a concave breast of rock, nearly vertical and
destitute of vegitation. In the cul de sac, I was caught like a
bear in a pen. Pursuit was needless. They had only to wait.
They waited for two days and nights, crouching behind a rock topping with a
growth of mesquite, and with a cliff at my back, suffering agonies of
thirst and absolute hopelessness of deliverance. I fought the fellows at long range,
firing occasionally at the smoke of their rifles, as they did at that of
mine. Of course, I dare not close my eyes at night, and
lack of sleep was a keen torture. I remember the morning of the third
day, which I knew was to be my last. I remember rather indistinctly
that, in my depression and delirium, I sprang out into the open and
began firing my repeating rifle without seeing anybody to fire at. And I remember
no more of that fight. The next thing that I recollect was by pulling
myself out of a river just at nightfall. I had not a rag of
clothing and knew nothing of my whereabouts. But all that night I traveled cold
and footsore toward the north. At daybreak I found myself at Fort C.
F. Smith, my destination, but without my dispatches. The first man
that I met was a sergeant named William Briscoe, whom I knew very well.
You can fancy his astonishment at seeing me in that condition, and my
own at his asking who the devil I was? Dave Duck, I answered,
who should I be? He startled like an owl. You do look
it, he said, and I observed that he drew a little away from
me. What's up? He added? I told him what it had happened
to me the day before. He heard me through, still staring. Then
he said, my dear fellow, if you were Dave Duck, I ought
to inform you that I buried you two months ago. I was out with
a small scouting party and found your body full of bullet holes and newly scalped,
somewhat mutilated. Otherwise too, I'm sorry to say write where you say
you made your fight come to my tent, and I'll show you your clothing
and some letters that I took from your person. The commandant has your dispatches.
He performed that promise. He showed me the clothing, which I resolutely
put on, the letters, which I put into my pocket. He made
no objection, then took me to the commandant, who heard my story and
coldly ordered Briscoe to take me to the guardhouse. On the way, I
said, Bill Briscoe, did you really and truly bury the dead body that
you found in these togs? Sure, he answered, just as I told
you. It was Dave Duck. All right. Most of us knew him,
and now you damn imposted you'd better tell me who you are. I'd
give something to know, I said. A week later, I escaped from
the guard house and got out of the country as fast as I could.
Twice I have been back seeking for the faithful Spot in the hills, but
unable to find it. The End of a Man with Two Lives by Ambrose Bierce