The Hunt:

Tuskaloosa travels in our company now. At Atahachi, his pride was such that the Adelantado, our Captain-General De Soto, found it necessary to compel his cooperation after initial refusals to provide bearers and service. Thus, though Tuskaloosa walks unbound by chains, he is a cacique under firm guard, his every move observed. Since that day, his words have been sparse, delivered in a low tone, his gaze almost always fixed on the path ahead, as if our column and its purpose were beneath his notice. Some of the more seasoned hidalgos speak of it as the unyielding pride of a great lord accustomed to absolute authority. Others among us, recalling the sudden hostility encountered in other provinces, believe he is merely biding his time, waiting for an opportunity.

The character of the land has changed with his presence. The villages we encounter now are smaller, their stores of maize and beans less plentiful than those we found in the more fertile valleys behind us. Fewer natives emerge to barter or simply to gaze upon our horses and armor; those who do show little welcome, their faces often shuttered and unreadable. Each day, the silence of the surrounding pine forests and cane brakes seems to deepen, pressing in on our marching column.

One of the guides slipped away in the night. No one saw him leave. No one followed. De Soto called it desertion. The rest of us call it a sign.

Following this, the few remaining local guides we had pressed into service grew even more uncommunicative, their knowledge of the trails professedly fading with each league. Each dawn, the quiet that settles over the camp before the trumpets sound feels heavier, more laden. Yet, Tuskaloosa himself betrays no weariness from the relentless pace, nor does any discernible fear touch his stoic features. He only looks forward, ever forward, towards the large, palisaded town he has indicated to the Adelantado as our next major stop – a place his people call Mabila.

To Be Continued…