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.