A Man with Two Lives

by Ambrose Bierce

　　Here is the queer story of David William Duck, related by himself.Duck is an old man living in Aurora, Illinois, where he isuniversally respected. He is commonly known, however, as "DeadDuck.""In the autumn of 1866 I was a private soldier of the EighteenthInfantry. My company was one of those stationed at Fort PhilKearney, commanded by Colonel Carrington. The country is more orless familiar with the history of that garrison, particularly withthe slaughter by the Sioux of a detachment of eighty-one men andofficers--not one escaping--through disobedience of orders by itscommander, the brave but reckless Captain Fetterman. When thatoccurred, I was trying to make my way with important dispatches toFort C. F. Smith, on the Big Horn. As the country swarmed withhostile Indians, I traveled by night and concealed myself as best Icould before daybreak. The better to do so, I went afoot, armedwith a Henry rifle and carrying three days' rations in my haversack."For my second place of concealment I chose what seemed in thedarkness a narrow canon leading through a range of rocky hills. Itcontained many large bowlders, detached from the slopes of thehills. Behind one of these, in a clump of sage-brush, I made my bedfor the day, and soon fell asleep. It seemed as if I had hardlyclosed my eyes, though in fact it was near midday, when I wasawakened by the report of a rifle, the bullet striking the bowlderjust above my body. A band of Indians had trailed me and had menearly surrounded; the shot had been fired with an execrable aim bya fellow who had caught sight of me from the hillside above. Thesmoke of his rifle betrayed him, and I was no sooner on my feet thanhe was off his and rolling down the declivity. Then I ran in astooping posture, dodging among the clumps of sage-brush in a stormof bullets from invisible enemies. The rascals did not rise andpursue, which I thought rather queer, for they must have known by mytrail that they had to deal with only one man. The reason for theirinaction was soon made clear. I had not gone a hundred yards beforeI reached the limit of my run--the head of the gulch which I hadmistaken for a canon. It terminated in a concave breast of rock,nearly vertical and destitute of vegetation. In that cul-de-sac Iwas caught like a bear in a pen. Pursuit was needless; they hadonly to wait."They waited. For two days and nights, crouching behind a rocktopped with a growth of mesquite, and with the cliff at my back,suffering agonies of thirst and absolutely hopeless of deliverance,I fought the fellows at long range, firing occasionally at the smokeof their rifles, as they did at that of mine. Of course, I did notdare to close my eyes at night, and lack of sleep was a keentorture."I remember the morning of the third day, which I knew was to be mylast. I remember, rather indistinctly, that in my desperation anddelirium I sprang out into the open and began firing my repeatingrifle without seeing anybody to fire at. And I remember no more ofthat fight."The next thing that I recollect was my pulling myself out of ariver just at nightfall. I had not a rag of clothing and knewnothing of my whereabouts, but all that night I traveled, cold andfootsore, toward the north. At daybreak I found myself at Fort C.F. Smith, my destination, but without my dispatches. The first manthat I met was a sergeant named William Briscoe, whom I knew verywell. You can fancy his astonishment at seeing me in thatcondition, and my own at his asking who the devil I was."'Dave Duck,' I answered; 'who should I be?'"He stared like an owl."'You do look it,' he said, and I observed that he drew a littleaway from me. 'What's up?' he added."I told him what had happened to me the day before. He heard methrough, still staring; then he said:"'My dear fellow, if you are Dave Duck I ought to inform you that Iburied you two months ago. I was out with a small scouting partyand found your body, full of bullet-holes and newly scalped--somewhat mutilated otherwise, too, I am sorry to say--right whereyou say you made your fight. Come to my tent and I'll show you yourclothing and some letters that I took from your person; thecommandant has your dispatches.'"He performed that promise. He showed me the clothing, which Iresolutely put on; the letters, which I put into my pocket. He madeno objection, then took me to the commandant, who heard my story andcoldly ordered Briscoe to take me to the guardhouse. On the way Isaid:"'Bill Briscoe, did you really and truly bury the dead body that youfound in these togs?'"'Sure,' he answered--'just as I told you. It was Dave Duck, allright; most of us knew him. And now, you damned impostor, you'dbetter tell me who you are.'"'I'd give something to know,' I said."A week later, I escaped from the guardhouse and got out of thecountry as fast as I could. Twice I have been back, seeking forthat fateful spot in the hills, but unable to find it."