Speaker 1: 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