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