The camp was encircled by three concentric rows of sentinels.  They were mounted, and rode incessantly to and fro, through their short patrols.  Night came.  It was dark.  Carson and Beale crept out from the camp, on their hands and feet, feeling for the tall grass, the slight depressions in the ground, the shade of the thickets.  They had shoes instead of moccasins.  As they crept along foot by foot in breathless silence, the stiff soles of the shoes would sometimes hit a stone or a stick, and make a slight noise.  They drew off their shoes and pushed them under their belts.  Occasionally they were within a few feet of the sentinels, whom they could dimly discern.

They had passed the first line of sentinels, and the second, and were just beginning to breathe a little more freely when a sentinel rode up to within a few feet of the spot where they were lying still as death, and but slightly concealed in the tall grass.  By daylight they would have been instantly seen.  To their terror the sentinel was mounted, and alighting with flint and steel began to strike a light to indulge in the comfort of his pipe.  The flame of a piece of paper would reveal them.  The suspense was terrible.  So still did they lie and so intense were their inward throbbings that Mr. Carson afterwards affirmed that he could actually hear Lieutenant Beale’s heart pulsate.

Providentially the Mexican lighted his pipe, and remounting rode in the other direction.  For a distance of nearly two miles Carson and Beale thus crept along, working their way through the Mexican lines.  Having left the last sentinel behind them, they regained their feet and felt for their shoes.  They were gone.  Thus far they had not interchanged even a whisper.  Though the worst peril was now over, they had still many dangers to encounter, and fearful suffering.  It would not do to advance upon San Diego by any of the well-trodden trails, all of which were closely watched by the enemy’s scouts.  Carson chose a circuitous route over rocks and hills, where their feet were dreadfully lacerated by the prickly pear.

All the next day, with feet torn and bleeding, they toiled along, feeding upon whatever they could find, which would in the slightest degree appease the gnawings of hunger.  Another night spread its gloom around them.  Still onward was the march of our heroes.  About midnight, Carson discovered, from a slight eminence, the dim outline of the houses in San Diego.  They approached the American sentinels, announced themselves as friends, and were conducted to Commodore Stockton.  He immediately dispatched one hundred and seventy men with a heavy piece of ordnance, and with directions to march day and night, for the relief of Kearney.

The Mexicans hearing of their approach, knowing that they would be attacked both in front and rear, fled.  Kearney and his army were saved.  Carson and Beale had rescued them.

The main army of the Mexicans was now at Los Angelos, about a hundred and twenty miles north from San Diego.  They had a strongly intrenched camp there; garrisoned by about seven hundred men.  Kearney and Fremont united their forces to attack them.  Carson was again with his friend Fremont.  The Mexicans were driven away, and the American army took up its winter quarters during two or three cold and dreary months.