tall man shrugged.

"Don't ask me. All I know is that Jim Cockrell swore to it and I've
heard him tell it drunk and sober and always the same way. He held out
for the angel. I'm not saying anything against that, but whatever it
was it must have had a pretty powerful pull to get a dog out to a
trapper in the dead o' winter."

They wondered over the story, offering explanations, and as they talked
the fire died low and the moon, a hemisphere clean-halved as though
sliced by a sword, rose serene from a cloud bank. Its coming silenced
them and for a space they watched the headlands of the solemn landscape
blackening against the sky, and the river breaking into silvery
disquiet. Separating the current, which girdled it with a sparkling
belt, was the dark blue of an island, thick plumed with trees, a black
and mysterious oblong. 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. 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