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 is universally
respected. He is commonly known, however, as
"Dead Duck."
"In the autumn of 1866 I was a private soldier
of 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 and officers--not
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 bowlders, detached from
the slopes of the hills. Behind one of these,
in a clump of sage-brush, 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 near midday, when I was awakened by the
report of a rifle, the bullet striking the
bowlder just above my body. A 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 stooping posture,
dodging among the clumps of sage-brush 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 vegetation.
In that 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 topped 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 smoke of their rifles,
as they did at that of mine. Of course, I
did not dare to 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 desperation
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 my
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 stared 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 had happened to me the
day before. He heard me through, still
staring; then he said:
"'My dear fellow, if you are 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 am sorry to say--right 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 damned impostor, you'd better 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 the country as fast as I could.
Twice I have been back, seeking for that fateful
spot in the hills, but unable to find it."
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
|
