The King of the Casqui Nation swelled his chest and declared, “I have chased you from your walls, and you have never seen my country.”
Lord de Soto motioned both kings to him as the interpreter explained their exchange. “In the eyes of God, all men are equal,” he said.
The Pa-caha bowed. “I will not,” he said, “in keeping with my people’s beliefs, take a position that is less than what is rightfully mine. If that is your wish, my Lord, I will take my meal with my warriors rather than relinquish my rightful position.”
Lord de Soto smiled, “I did not expect to find in men, so far removed from every good teaching and culture, such a refinement in the rules of honor.” He motioned to the King of Pa-caha. “As it should be, at my right hand shall be King Na-acha because of his more ancient and noble ancestry.”
King Issqui bowed and said, “I am your vassal and honored to receive any place at your table.”
“Then to you belongs the honored position on my left,” the governor proclaimed.
Master Diego stood back as the other Spaniards rushed for the remaining empty places. With the challenge of positions settled, eating came easy. De Soto’s questions soon turned to the lands beyond the two nations.
Issqui responded first but with guarded answers. “The ridge that you saw to the west from the Temple Mound of Casqui,” he said, “we call Little Brother Mountain. It is not a mountain, only a long ridge that runs through the Nine-Rivers Valley like a backbone.” With his arm stretched toward the west, Issqui made a motion with his hand of crossing over Little Brother Mountain. “On the other side,” he said, “are many swamps, and beyond those are the nations of Palisema and Calpista, both lying along the foot of the mountains.”
Hernando de Soto stopped chewing.
Issqui hesitated then continued, “The springs of Calpista flow with the best salt found in Nine-Rivers Valley, and in the hills above Palisema is an abundance of bears, deer, buffalo, and cougars, from which their people make the finest leathers and dyed skins.”
Lord de Soto waved his hand, “Tell me more about the mountains.”
Issqui glanced back at his Council of Elders. “We call them the Mountains of the Ozarks,” he said. “They rise above Nine-Rivers Valley beyond Palisema, run north to south, and spread to the west. The town of Coligua sits on the White River where it flows out of the mountains down to Palisema and joins the Little Red River.”
Lord de Soto reached under his cloak and pulled out a large gold crucifix hanging from a gold chain. “Is there any yellow metal like this in those mountains?” he demanded.
“My Lord,” King Issqui said, “Coligua is the largest of the nations in the Ozarks. They are great hunters of buffalo and kind to guests, but I know of no yellow metal.”
“My Lord, my Lord,” Na-acha shouted as he reached toward the Cross.
De Soto quickly put it away.
Na-acha continued, “I know all who enter my territories on both sides of the mighty Mizzissibizzibbippi River. And I know of traders who have traveled to a land with yellow metal.”
Without any expression, de Soto eased back from the table. He said nothing as every other Spaniard twisted, squirmed, and whispered the same word, “Oro, oro, oro.”
I understood what Cooquyi had tried to explain. I could see it in their eyes, the power the yellow metal had over them. Issqui settled back as the Spaniards leaned in.
King Na-acha stood. “I know only what I have been told, for I have never seen this land.”
The governor eyed his conquistadors as the king’s next words were translated.
“I have heard that the land of yellow metal is in a small mountain range, four to five days journey to the north.”
“What do they call this land?” de Soto asked quietly.
Na-acha began but paused. His thoughts frozen behind parted lips.
Hernando leaned in toward him and demanded, “Is it called ‘Chisca’?”
“Chisca,” King Issqui spoke up before Na-acha had a chance to recast his words. “I have heard of that land.”
Lord de Soto turned to Issqui.
“Yes,” Na-acha shouted to regain the attention, “it is called Chisca.”
The Son of the Sun smiled. All the Spaniards smiled; some laughed and patted each other.
“Great Lord,” King Na-acha said, “among those captured in your assault on Pa-caha are traders and outsiders. If you permit your loyal servant, I will determine the best of these for your guides to Chisca.”
Two Spaniards on different sides of the feasting table stood at the same time. “I, Pedro Moreno, offer my services,” began one.
“Hernando de Silvera,” the other shouted over him, “I offer all of my abilities and courage to Governor de Soto as to his needs.”
“Two trustworthy men from the same town,” Governor de Soto said and spread his arms wide. “I accept both of your offers. I order you to gather twenty horsemen of your choosing, fifty foot soldiers, and go with my charge to find the mountains of Chisca.”
Almost forgotten, King Issqui stood. “I offer six of my warriors to the service of this expedition. Also, for barter with the people on the way, I give more deerskins and a basket of pearls.”
King Na-acha leaned over the table. “I pledge twelve of my best warriors, the finest skins of deer and elk, and more and larger pearls.”
Master Diego slapped me on the back and laughed. “¡Oro ... Gold!”
Chapter 36: The Right Hand
Taninto’s Journey
July 7, 1541
Early the next morning, an expedition assembled on the plaza. I waited next to Cooquyi and Shadow Wind for Master Diego. The six Casqui warriors promised by King Issqui and twelve Pa-cahas stood to either side of the fifty foot soldiers. Two captured salt traders from the north were conscripted to guide the odd party of three nations to a land unseen by my people: Chisca and the mountain of yellow metal.
The first day offered nothing that I had not seen in Pa-caha or Casqui. The allegiance remained strong and in good spirits. The Spaniards joked and laughed. Master Diego was often the loudest.
Three Pa-cahas ran ahead of the party while the rest escorted the two salt trader guides. Horsemen followed, and the soldiers marched behind them in lines by order of weapons. I, like the rest of the tenders and servants, trotted last, except for the six Casqui warriors and two horsemen guarding the rear.
The second day, the land fell barren and the air grew hotter, with hardly a tree in sight. The prairies filled with bluestem grass, taller than a man and so thick the horses began to balk. Some would go no farther. The Spaniards ordered the tenders and servants to the front to beat down a trail.
Master Diego walked Shadow Wind on a tight rein most of the day. I learned from the first time I saw him that there is nothing these great beasts fear more than a snake. And I feared for him every time a tail slithered through the grass in front of me.
After a long day, the grasses thinned out. We set up camp for the night as Father Sun cast a golden spell across the jagged horizon of Little Brother Mountain. The Spanish built several fires. The horsemen stared at one. The soldiers complained and argued around the others. A troubled night for many, but I slept hard without alarm.
The next morning, the salt traders led us into another field of bluestems. The foot soldiers grumbled louder with every step. Pedro Moreno galloped to the front.
“¡Alto! ¡Alto!” he shouted and raised his sword.
“We have been deceived by these two liars and maybe others,” Cooquyi repeated Pedro’s words in a whisper.
Pedro pointed at the guides and Pa-caha warriors.
“They led us away from the mountains.”
Hernando de Silvera mounted his horse and galloped up to Pedro. “Those are not mountains!” he shouted.
Pedro turned to the soldiers. “Do you trust your own eyes or the word of an Indian?”
“I trust the orders of my commander.” Captain de Silvera rose up out of his saddle. “Tu
rn your horse around and follow the guides as ordered.”
Pedro shoved his sword into the scabbard and jerked his horse about. The soldiers followed, but their grumbling never stopped. The grass grew thicker. Even with it stomped down before them, none of the horses would carry a rider.
Fearing for their lives, the salt traders pushed on until they broke onto an open plain of short prairie grasses and scattered trees. A village lay in the distance, on the bank above a stream: the first water seen since leaving Pa-caha territory.
The horsemen, so exhausted moments before, sprang to life. They galloped past everyone and charged toward the hamlet. Foot soldiers trotted after them along with Cooquyi. The sudden attack surprised the villagers. A few tried to escape, but they could not outrun the Spanish horses.
The small tribe called themselves Caluca, simple hunters who grew nothing. They fashioned huts from poles propped up around a circle over which they stretched sewn rush mats. When they had killed or frightened away all the game in the area, they rolled up their mats and dragged the poles to their next camp. They knew nothing of the lands to the north. They had no stores of corn or beans and very little meat. The Spanish took that and six large chunks of crystal rock salt.
After a night of questions and pain for the Caluca people, the Spanish had learned nothing more about Chisca or the yellow metal. Shouting soon surrounded every campfire. The Spanish reacted with anger and out of revenge quicker than any Casqui man. Swords were drawn against threats and cast Spaniard against Spaniard.
By early the next morning, the two salt traders forced to be our guides were dead. They were accused of misleading the Spanish, then tortured and killed. Cooquyi told me he had seen it all but refused to say more. He hardly spoke for several days after that.
We marched the next day to the northeast as the guides had indicated. Again, thick grasses slowed our pace. That night, a hush hung over the camp. In the darkness, secret planning took action and by day’s light, Pedro Moreno had assumed command of the expedition.
On his orders, we retracted our path over tromped grasses, then turned west toward Little Brother Mountain. Casqui and Pa-caha warriors tried to speak to Captain Moreno, but he would not listen to “Indians,” as he called anyone who was not Spanish. The pace was still slow and the journey hot, but the Spaniards could see a goal.
By the second day, some began to doubt. Captain Moreno sent horsemen ahead. By the time we stopped to set up camp, anyone could see that Little Brother was just a hill, long and narrow, but not a mountain. Only when the returning scouts reported the truth did Moreno accept it.
No secret plans, no complaining that night—merely the somber hush of failure filled the camp. Without quarrel or argument, the expedition turned back to Pa-caha with nothing more than six large chunks of rock salt and a copper breastplate taken from an elder of Caluca.
The closer we came to Pa-caha, the more Cooquyi began to talk. He seemed to enjoy the Spanish disappointment. Back on the plaza among the other horse tenders, Cooquyi gladly told his stories of Spanish foolishness.
As if they had heard his words, Spaniards suddenly appeared. A horseman shouted and pointed. Halberdiers with their long double-bladed pikes separated out Cooquyi, the other tenders who had been on the expedition, and me. They pushed and shoved us to the top of the Temple Mound.
Captains and soldiers gathered around the small plaza next to the Temple of the Dead. They parted as the halberdiers pushed us onto the plaza. Lord de Soto sat at the far end. Captain de Silvera stood on his right, and just as proud, Pedro Moreno stood on the other side. Neither of the kings from Casqui nor Pa-caha stood with de Soto.
I searched for Master Diego among the Spaniards. Off to the left were the six Casqui warriors from the journey. King Na-acha was to our right, standing apart from his warriors. Of the twelve he sent with the expedition, the Spanish could find only six.
Lord de Soto stood. As he spoke, I watched Cooquyi’s face. Before the translation began, I knew that I did not want to hear it.
“A mission of honorable men with honorable intent has failed. An expedition I commissioned returned with nothing, no report of Chisca or its mountains. As governor of all of these lands, I will know why!”
While the interpreter translated his words, de Soto studied one by one those kneeling before him. Cooquyi stared back. I looked away.
“A mission that must not fail—failed.” The governor pointed a finger to either side. “Not because of Captain Silvera or Pedro Moreno.” His hands shook in rhythm with his words. “I know the character and commitment of these men.”
He turned both fingers toward himself and shouted, “I will know who plotted to deceive them and me, your lord and master!”
“Bring the Indian guides before me.”
Guards pushed the Casqui and Pa-caha warriors to the center of the plaza. They all knelt, the Pa-cahas last.
“Stand and confess,” Lord de Soto said as he sat down. “Tell me who misled my captains.” He waited. None of the warriors moved. He turned to his right. “Perros, vengan,” he called.
“Dogs,” Cooquyi whispered.
In the shade of the Temple wall, three angry dogs scrambled to their feet: two were black, but the largest was brown with black stripes that seemed painted on. They dashed to Lord de Soto’s side as his interpreter shouted, “Who will point the finger of blame?”
Again, no one moved.
The governor swelled as he took in a long breath then pointed at one of the Pa-cahas. “Throw him to the dogs!” he shouted.
They grabbed the kneeling Pa-caha. He shook loose and stood on his own. Someone kicked him in the back.
As he fell, de Soto yelled, “¡Ataquen!”
Behind us, they yelled and shouted, “Ataquen ... ataquen.”
The Pa-caha got upon his knees before the largest of the dogs jumped. Knocked back, his legs folded under as he fought off claws and teeth.
Two Pa-caha warriors rushed to help their friend. The guards killed one with a sword through the heart and slashed the other across the chest. Bleeding, he stumbled on with his flint knife raised.
All the dogs looked up. The one over the Pa-caha’s bent right leg returned to tearing away the flesh. The largest dog released a bloody arm and charged the knife.
With his free hand, the Pa-caha reached over the dog on top of him, grabbed his ear, and pulled. The dog rolled off. The warrior stood to his knees again.
The other Pa-caha dropped his knife and fell from a second sword slash across the back of his neck. His eyes fixed and wide, he could no longer fight or move. He could only watch as a black devil crushed his throat. The last three Pa-caha guides turned on their guards. The Spanish could have killed them all, but with malice and skill, they only crippled. The dogs did the killing.
With the dogs distracted, the first Pa-caha crawled to the flint knife. Tucking his mangled legs under him, he rose up ready to fight. He jabbed at the first black dog to charge him. He nicked it across the chest. That brought a yip and the other two dogs.
All three growled and circled the last Pa-caha warrior from the expedition. He could keep two at arm’s length but not three. With his face ripped and bloody, he shouted words no one could understand. Then he held the knife to his heart and fell forward.
The dogs pounced in a fury of black, brown, and blood. The Spaniards stomped and cheered. Their roar stole my own screams, vanishing like tears in a raging river. Lord de Soto whistled. The dogs turned and trotted to his side.
He raised his hands, and the gathering grew quiet. “Now,” he shouted as slaves dragged the Pa-caha bodies away, “who will speak?”
King Issqui pushed through the swarming Spaniards. “I will speak,” he said, making his way to the six kneeling Casqui warriors. “I know nothing of a failed expedition, but I will speak for these brave and honorable men.”
He took a position behind the first in line. “Each warrior here would gladly have given his life in battle rather than fail in his duty to
so great a lord as you.”
“I hear your grand words, but I do not hear an answer.” Lord de Soto shouted, “Who is responsible?”
The dogs jumped to their feet.
“My Lord,” King Issqui called out, “I do not know nor do these men.” He placed his hands on the first man’s shoulders as a father might do for his young son. He squeezed and reached to his side.
A Spanish knife gleamed. Casqui blood flowed. Issqui released his grip. The man swayed and grabbed his throat. Issqui stepped behind the second warrior.
“A testament of their loyalty are their lives,” he said and slit the next throat.
The truth of their words and deeds belonged to their king. He alone stood in Lord de Soto’s glare. “If you doubt these men,” Issqui said, “you doubt me, your loyal servant.” He stepped to next kneeling man.
“There has been too much death,” Lord de Soto said. “Take your men and leave.”
King Issqui raised the bloody knife, point down, and slowly turned it in front of his face. “Your gift has served this loyal servant well, but I no longer have a need for such a weapon.” He handed the knife to a Spaniard behind him and walked away.
De Soto took a deep breath. “I will have an answer.” Clenching his fist, he glared down at the servants and horse tenders. “I will take one hand at a time until someone speaks!” he shouted.
As the interpreter translated his threat, two Spanish guards jerked Cooquyi to his feet.
“Who is your master?” de Soto demanded.
Cooquyi lifted his head like a proud son. “Master Diego de Guzman.”
I searched the crowd again.
One of the Spanish guards called his name. “Diego ... Diego de Guzman.”
No one answered.
The two guards shoved Cooquyi across the plaza. He pushed back. They knocked him to the ground up against an old log that had been rolled onto the small plaza.
A large Spaniard stood on the other side. Unlike most Spaniards, he wore no shirt. Black hair covered his arms and chest as well as his face. Across his shoulder rested a double-bladed axe; the edges sparkled even on that dark day. One guard held Cooquyi down while the other tied his shoulder and left arm to the log.
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