They kept on, Kit Carson leading; narrowly dodged other patrols--for the outskirts of the hill seemed alive with them. They finally met no more, and Kit announced that they were through, he thought, at last. But they found disappointment. Their route was cut by a wide, open valley covered only with stones and cactus. They dared not stand up; they might yet be seen. It was two miles across, and they hitched along, on their knees and on hands and knees, every foot of the way, while the rocks and cactus tortured them. Here, where the brush grew high, Kit stopped and appeared to be relieved. "Put on yore shoes, boy. We're out of the trap and we can make better time." Hurrah! Lieutenant Beale laid his hand to his belt. What! "I've lost my shoes, Kit." "So've I. That's mean, but we can't help it. Come on. We've a long way yit; we daren't line in direct. Thar'll be more o' those patrols watchin' the trails into San Diego." They hastened as best they might, on a circuit to avoid the trails. The country was rough and rolling. When day dawned, they left the mesas and kept to the dense brush of the canyons; were almost lost, so crooked their path; but the Indian guided them, and constantly sniffed for the salty air from the ocean. In the middle of the day they rested; their soles, knees, and hands were raw, and body and limb burned with the cactus; their throats were parched for lack of water. At evening they smelled the ocean. The Indian said that they were within twelve miles of San Diego. From a high point they might have seen the glimmer of the Pacific. Kit Carson spoke. "We'd better divide up, I think. Then one of us will get through. That's safer than travelin' together. Lieutenant, you head off to southward; amigo (that to the Indian boy, in Spanish), you go on straight; I'll take around north'ard, whar the _Mexicanos_ probably are thickest to close the Los Angeles trail. Whoever gets in fust will report without wastin' any time." "All right, sir," agreed the lieutenant. "Bueno (Good)," muttered the Indian, nodding. It was understood. The lieutenant and Kit shook hands; and they three separated, to steal swiftly away in the waning twilight. At San Diego, Commodore Stockton had landed sailors and marines to reinforce the American Riflemen in San Diego. He was building Fort Stockton, to command the town. The frigate _Congress_ and the sloop-of-war _Portsmouth_ swung at anchor in the narrow channel of the harbor. He had learned of the plight of General Kearny, and was just starting a relief column upon a night march for the hill, when at nine o'clock one of his sentries challenged a dark figure laboring in. "Halt! Who goes there?" "Amigo, amigo (Friend, friend)!" 'Twas the Indian boy. He had arrived first. The sentry called the sergeant of the guard, the sergeant of the guard took the boy to the officer of the guard, and the officer took him at once to the commodore.