The Hunt:

We had seen many chiefs. Most met us in the open.
This one waited on a mound, seated on a high platform at the edge of the square.

He was tall — taller than any man among us — wrapped in a long cloak of feathers. His face was hard to read, his posture motionless. A feathered fan or shade was held above him. The attendant beside him never spoke, never moved. Only the wind seemed to acknowledge our arrival.

They called him Tuskaloosa — Black Warrior.

We performed a juego de cañas, our riding display, as we often did to impress and intimidate. Lances clattered and horses surged in rehearsed aggression. The people watched. The chief did not move.

After a meal, De Soto made his demands — porters to carry our supplies, women to serve the camp.
Tuskaloosa refused.

He said he had not been raised to serve. That others carried loads for him — not the other way around.

So we took him.

He was surrounded without ceremony and held under guard.
From that day forward, he walked with us — not by choice, but under watch.

Afterward, he agreed to give what we had asked for.
The bearers would be gathered, he said.
The women would meet us at another town.

He called it Mabila.

He walks with us now, silent as stone, his eyes giving nothing.
But the messengers he sent ahead rode fast.

To Be Continued…