Thus speaking, George Bent conducted the company to the post.
This was to Kit a second home: but he was anxious to turn south for his first home—old Taos, where bided Josefa, his young wife. Oliver was as ready, for at Taos was Ike, maybe, or Sol, or William New, to whom to tell tales of the trail that they had missed.
However, at the post a “big” Fourth of July had been planned. The lieutenant had decided to stay for a banquet, and Kit and Oliver must stay. So they did. After the feast Lieutenant Frémont himself asserted that not even in Washington or St. Louis had he ever sat down to a finer menu than this, served in honor of the Fourth and of the expedition, at Bent’s Fort in the Indian country, 500 miles from the frontier.
On the fifth the lieutenant was to continue on for Washington. Fuentes and Pablo, the two California Mexicans; the Chinook youth from the Dalles of the Columbia; and Sacramento the iron-gray horse from Sutter’s Fort, remained with him in his train. Captain Joe Walker wished to stay at the post for a time. Alexander Godey was to seek St. Vrain’s, his former station. Kit and Oliver were for Taos. The lieutenant, last of all, shook hands with them.
“You’ll not forget next year, Kit?” he reminded. “We’re to try that desert again, you know—and work north from Sutter’s to Vancouver. The Sacramento Valley calls.”
“I’ll not forget,” promised Kit. “I’ll be ready.”
“And you, my lad—you’ve had enough of the explorer’s trail, I fancy,” addressed the lieutenant, to Oliver.
“No, sir,” said Oliver, “I haven’t.”
“Bravo!” laughed Lieutenant Frémont. His fine blue eyes flashed. “You’ll do. You’re one of my company. You’ve got the heart of a man, and it takes a man to follow Kit and me.”
End.