Old Joe pointed to it with his pipe.
"Brady's Island," he said. "Ask Hy to tell you about that. He knew
Brady."
The tall man looked thoughtfully at the crested shape.
"That's it," he said. "That's where Brady was murdered."
And then he told the story:
"It was quite a while back in the 30's, and the free trappers and
mountain men brought their pelts down in bull boats and mackinaws to
St. Louis. There were a bunch of men workin' down the river and when
they got to Brady's Island, that's out there in the stream, the water
was so shallow the boats wouldn't float, so they camped on the island.
Brady was one of 'em, a cross-tempered man, and he and another feller'd
been pick-in' at each other day by day since leavin' the mountains.
They'd got so they couldn't get on at all. Men do that sometimes on
the trail, get to hate the sight and sound of each other. You can't
tell why.
"One day the others went after buffalo and left Brady and the man that
hated him alone on the island. When the hunters come home at night
Brady was dead by the camp fire, shot through the head and lyin' stiff
in his blood.
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