At sunset of June 29 the settlement of the Pueblo was reached. Here the six trappers stopped, and here Kit received word that all was well at Taos. Now Bent’s Fort was but seventy-five miles. The trail along the Arkansas was broad and well beaten; the animals appeared to know that something especial was just before, and they travelled briskly.
Ere mid-morning of the second day, July 1, from the advance Oliver, greeting many a familiar object, spied it, ahead—that one object for which in particular had he been peering: the plains citadel of Bent’s Fort. Amidst the fringe of cottonwoods its massy dun clay walls were limned against the flowering herbage and the sage.
“Hooray! Hooray!” Hats flew into the air, and the reports of the carbines and rifles were answered by cannon.
The flag of the ramparts was streaming to welcome the flag of the cavalcade; and as the cavalcade drew nearer, several horsemen clashed from the gate-way, to give personal greeting.
“Thar’s George Bent. Reckon William air away,” commented Kit.
George Bent it was, younger brother of William, but a partner in the Bent, St. Vrain & Co. firm. He was much at Taos.
“Hello, George.”
“How are you, Kit? Hello, Joe! Where’d you hail from? Come right along into the post, gentlemen. Glad to see you back. How far have you been?”
“’Bout six thousand miles,” answered Kit. “How’s my wife, George?”
“Very well indeed, Kit. Nothing has changed since you left, I believe. Let’s see—just about a year, isn’t it? We’ve all been looking for you. They’d almost given you up for lost, in the States, lieutenant.”