David William Duck was a Wyoming Territory soldier was killed in an ambush by Indians during the Fetterman Fight in 1866. He was buried by Sergeant William Briscoe. At least that’s what Duck was told when he returned to the fort!! On December 21, 1866, an entire command was annihilated in a battle against the Plains Indians in Wyoming Territory. The Fetterman Fight claimed the lives of 76 enlisted men, three officers, and two civilians, leaving the nation stunned. The details of the Fetterman Fight remain unclear, much like the mysterious story of a private at the same fort who bravely risked his life to deliver crucial messages from his commander. It was at this point that the peculiar tale of David William Duck began.
In the fall of 1866, Duck served as a private in the Eighteenth Infantry. He was stationed at Fort Phil Kearney under Colonel Carrington’s leadership. The garrison’s history is widely known, particularly the tragic massacre by the Sioux in the Fetterman Fight, caused by Captain Fetterman’s bold but reckless defiance of orders. During that time, Duck was traveling with urgent dispatches to Fort C F Smith on the Big Horn. With hostile Indians all around. He was forced to move at night and hide during the day as best he could. To improve his chances, I traveled on foot, armed with a Henry rifle and carrying three days’ rations in his haversack.
On his second night, Duck picked what seemed in the darkness to be a narrow canyon slicing through rocky hills as his hiding spot. The area was littered with large boulders that had tumbled from the hillsides. He settled behind one, tucked into some sagebrush, and quickly fell asleep. It felt like he had barely shut his eyes when he was jolted awake near midday by the crack of a rifle shot. The bullet struck the boulder just above him. A group of Indians had tracked him and were nearly surrounding him. The poorly aimed shot came from someone on the hillside above who had spotted him, but the rifle’s smoke gave away their position. Duck leapt to his feet and stumbled down the slope, keeping low and darting through sagebrush as bullets whizzed past. Oddly, his pursuers didn’t give chase, even though his tracks clearly showed he was alone. Their plan became clear soon enough. Duck hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards before he hit a dead end. What he thought was a canyon turned out to be a gulch ending at a sheer, barren rock face. Trapped in this cul-de-sac like prey in a snare, he realized they didn’t need to pursue him. They just had to wait it out and their prey would be a dead duck.
So, the Sioux waited. For two long days and nights, Duck huddled behind a rock crowned with a patch of mesquite, the cliff rising steeply behind him. Thirst gnawed at him relentlessly, and any hope of rescue had long faded. They traded sporadic shots, each aiming at the smoke of the other’s rifle. Sleep was impossible, and the exhaustion was pure agony.
Duck could barely recall the morning of the third day. He just knew it would be his last. In a frantic haze of desperation and delirium, he suddenly charged into the open, firing his rifle aimlessly. After that, the battle became a blur. The next thing Duck remembered was dragging himself out of a river as night fell. Stripped of everything…naked, disoriented, and alone, Duck spent the freezing night trudging northward. Duck finally reached Fort C F Smith at dawn. It was his intended destination, but his dispatches were gone. The first person he saw was Sergeant William Briscoe, a man he knew well. Then things got weird. Briscoe looked at Duck in utter shock. Now, mind you, Duck was naked, so he wasn’t surprised at his reception, but then Briscoe asked who Duck was. He said, “Dave Duck. Who else would I be?” Briscoe stared at Duck like he had two heads. After Duck told Briscoe about the events of the precious day, Briscoe finally explained why he looked so shocked. Still staring, Briscoe said, “If you’re Dave Duck, I should tell you I buried you two months ago. I was scouting with a small group when we found your body, riddled with bullet holes, freshly scalped, and otherwise mutilated…right where you said your fight happened. Come to my tent, and I’ll show you your clothes and some letters I took from your body. The commandant has your dispatches.”
Briscoe showed Duck the clothes he had been wearing, and the dispatches Duck had been carrying. Then he took him to the commandant, who, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do with a dead man, ordered him to be taken to the guardhouse. On the way to the guardhouse, Duck asked him, “Bill, did you really bury a 
body wearing these clothes?” “Sure did,” he replied. “It was Dave Duck, no doubt about it. Most of us knew him. Now, you lying impostor, you’d better tell me who you really are.” Duck responded, “I wish I knew.”
A week later, Duck escaped from the guardhouse and fled the area as quickly as possible. Since then, he returned twice, trying to locate that cursed spot in the hills, but I’ve never been able to find it. He also ended up with the nickname, Dead Duck. It was a part of his life that he could never explain, and he lived to be an old man.
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