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A Man with Two Lives by Ambrose
Bierce. Here is a queer story of

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David William Duck, related by himself. Duck is an old man living in

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Aurora, Illinois, where he is
universally respected. He is commonly known,

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however, as Dead Duck. In
the autumn of eighteen sixty six, I

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was a private soldier in the eighteenth
Infantry. My company was one of those

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stationed at Fort phil Kearney, commanded
by Colonel Carrington. The country is more

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or less familiar with the history of
that garrison, particularly with the slaughter by

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the Sioux of a detachment of eighty
one men in officers, no one escaping

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through disobedience of orders by its commander, the brave but reckless Captain Fetterman.

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When that occurred, I was trying
to make my way with important dispatches to

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Fort C. F. Smith on
the Big Horn, as the country swarmed

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with hostile Indians. I traveled by
night and concealed myself as best I could

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before daybreak. The better to do
so, I went afoot, armed with

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a Henry rifle and carrying three days
rations in my haversack. For my second

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place of concealment. I chose what
seemed in the darkness a narrow canyon leading

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through a range of rocky hills.
It contained many large boulders detached from the

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slopes of the hills. Behind one
of these, in a clump of sagebrush,

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I made my bed for the day, and soon fell asleep. It

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seemed as if I had hardly closed
my eyes, though in fact it was

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nearly midday when I was awakened by
the report of a rifle, the bullet

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striking the boulder just above my body. The band of Indians had trailed me

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and had me nearly surrounded. The
shot had been fired with an execrable aim

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by a fellow who had caught sight
of me from the hillside above. The

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smoke of his rifle betrayed him,
and I was no sooner on my feet

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than he was off his and rolling
down the declivity. Then I ran,

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in a stooped posture, dodging among
the clumps of sagebrush, in a storm

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of bullets from invisible enemies. The
rascals did not rise and pursue, which

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I thought rather queer, for they
must have known by my trail that they

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had to deal with only one man. The reason for their inaction was soon

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made clear. I had not gone
a hundred yards before I reached the limit

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of my run. The head of
the gulch, which I had mistaken for

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a canyon. It terminated in a
concave breast of rock, nearly vertical and

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destitute of vegitation. In the cul
de sac, I was caught like a

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bear in a pen. Pursuit was
needless. They had only to wait.

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They waited for two days and nights, crouching behind a rock topping with a

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growth of mesquite, and with a
cliff at my back, suffering agonies of

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thirst and absolute hopelessness of deliverance.
I fought the fellows at long range,

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firing occasionally at the smoke of their
rifles, as they did at that of

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mine. Of course, I dare
not close my eyes at night, and

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lack of sleep was a keen torture. I remember the morning of the third

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day, which I knew was to
be my last. I remember rather indistinctly

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that, in my depression and delirium, I sprang out into the open and

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began firing my repeating rifle without seeing
anybody to fire at. And I remember

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no more of that fight. The
next thing that I recollect was by pulling

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myself out of a river just at
nightfall. I had not a rag of

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clothing and knew nothing of my whereabouts. But all that night I traveled cold

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and footsore toward the north. At
daybreak I found myself at Fort C.

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F. Smith, my destination,
but without my dispatches. The first man

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that I met was a sergeant named
William Briscoe, whom I knew very well.

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You can fancy his astonishment at seeing
me in that condition, and my

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own at his asking who the devil
I was? Dave Duck, I answered,

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who should I be? He startled
like an owl. You do look

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it, he said, and I
observed that he drew a little away from

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me. What's up? He added? I told him what it had happened

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to me the day before. He
heard me through, still staring. Then

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he said, my dear fellow,
if you were Dave Duck, I ought

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to inform you that I buried you
two months ago. I was out with

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a small scouting party and found your
body full of bullet holes and newly scalped,

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somewhat mutilated. Otherwise too, I'm
sorry to say write where you say

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you made your fight come to my
tent, and I'll show you your clothing

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and some letters that I took from
your person. The commandant has your dispatches.

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He performed that promise. He showed
me the clothing, which I resolutely

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put on, the letters, which
I put into my pocket. He made

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no objection, then took me to
the commandant, who heard my story and

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coldly ordered Briscoe to take me to
the guardhouse. On the way, I

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said, Bill Briscoe, did you
really and truly bury the dead body that

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you found in these togs? Sure, he answered, just as I told

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you. It was Dave Duck.
All right. Most of us knew him,

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and now you damn imposted you'd better
tell me who you are. I'd

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give something to know, I said. A week later, I escaped from

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the guard house and got out of
the country as fast as I could.

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Twice I have been back seeking for
the faithful Spot in the hills, but

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unable to find it. The End
of a Man with Two Lives by Ambrose Bierce