We grow more weary now, and still we march.
No gold. No tribute. Only wilderness — and the sound of our own footsteps.
The men complain in whispers. One was bitten by something in the night and fever took him by morning.
Another vanished after the morning watch. No trail. No blood. Just gone.
We speak in low voices now. Not from discipline, but instinct.
The guides are of little help. They say less each day. One walks with his eyes fixed ahead, the other with his face turned to the trees.
De Soto remains composed. But even he asks fewer questions.
He marks the trail now not with confidence, but caution.
I do not know what waits in the land ahead.
But the ones who carved the trees are not far.
And they know we are coming.
To Be Continued…
