The other one had a slick story to tell how Brady
cleanin' his gun, discharged it by accident and the bullet struck up
and killed him. They didn't believe it, but it weren't their business.
So they buried Brady there on the island and the next day each man
shouldered his pack and struck out to foot it to the Missouri.
"It was somethin' of a walk and the ones that couldn't keep up the
stride fell behind. They was all strung out along the river bank and
some of 'em turned off for ways they thought was shorter, and first
thing you know the party was scattered, and the man that hated Brady
was left alone, lopin' along on a side trail that slanted across the
prairie to the country of the Loup Fork Pawnees.
"That was the last they saw of him and it was a long time--news
traveled slow on the plains in them days--before anybody heard of him
for he never come to St. Louis to tell. Some weeks later a party of
trappers passin' near the Pawnee villages on the Loup Fork was hailed
by some Indians and told they had a paleface sick in the chief's tent.
The trappers went there and in the tent found a white man, clear
headed, but dyin' fast.
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