The morning following the battle of Maubila the autumnal sun broke in radiance over the desolate scene. The high oaken walls were gone, the great buildings had vanished, the ancestral oaks that stood about the grounds now looked like bare sentinels with arms of nakedness—scarred, barkless and leafless, the greenswarded square of the morning before was a sheet of black. When the morning before DeSoto first beheld it, Maubila was a busy hive of humanity, but it was now as silent as the desert. The buzz of conversation was no more, the cane lute was silent, the shout of the warrior had died away, the voices of the Indian maidens were hushed. The warriors were now stiff in death—the maidens had perished. From the smouldering ruins of the burned city, still crept a slow smoke, while around the borders of the horizon it shrouded the fronting woods. Nothing was wanting to complete the scene of desolation, nothing to finish the picture of horror.

About the grounds lay heaps of the dead, many burned to blackness, while around the walls without, bodies were scattered like leaves. The wide paths leading to the city from different directions, were paved with the dead, while along the neighboring streams they lay, still grasping their bows and tomahawks. Wounded unto death, they had dragged their bodies in burning thirst to the streams, had slaked their intense desire for water, and had lain down to die. Squaws and babies were intermingled with brave warriors, while maidens in their tawdry regalia, worn to greet the Spaniard and his men, were stretched in death. The leaves, grass, and low underbrush about the once proud city, were painted in the blood of its brave defenders, now no more.

To DeSoto it was a victory dearly bought. He had won by dint of discipline and of orderly evolution, by means of powder and bullet and encasing armor, but he had paid a heavy toll. It was the beginning of his own end, and that of the expedition which he led. Eighty-two Spaniards of the small band were either dead, or a little later, died of their wounds. Forty-five horses had been killed, and much of the clothing of the men had been consumed in the flames, together with medicines, relics, and much other valuable property. There was not an unwounded man in the party save among the priests, who did not share in the fight. Some of the men bore as many as eleven wounds, and in not a few instances, the arrows were still buried in the flesh, made difficult of extrication because of the triangular shape of the stones with which the arrows were tipped. Every surgeon was dead excepting one of the staff, and he the least skillful. Following the example of the men under Cortez in Mexico, the Spaniards cut away the fat part of the thighs of the slain Indians, and bound the flesh about their wounds. The camp was removed sufficiently away from the scene to escape the stench of the dead, the Spanish slain were buried, and DeSoto was left to plan for the future. Forgetful of his own wounds, he was intent on the comfort of his men. He would seek to cheer them with visions of fortune yet to be realized, and with promises never to be fulfilled.

In the solitude of thought, DeSoto kept well within himself. He realized the seriousness of the situation, was half inclined to abandon the quest for gold, but his proud spirit revolted against acknowledgement of failure. Yet a serious breach had been made in his ranks, his resources were impaired beyond recuperation, winter was coming on, he knew not the condition of the country ahead, nor did he know what the temper of his troops would be after the reaction from the battle. He talked to no one, for the very excellent reason that he did not know in whom to confide. The Spaniard is wary, suspicious. Every one suspects every other. Daring as DeSoto was, he was not without a modicum of precaution. As he had westward gone, the tribes had increased in intelligence and in formidableness. What lay before him toward the further west, he knew not. He could not sustain another Maubila. After all, would it be wise or not, to seek again the fleet in Tampa Bay? Here was a perplexity with which to wrestle. He must act, and that soon, but how, was the question that harassed his mind.

One ray of hope pierced the gloom of the silent and morose Spaniard—the Indian tribes westward and northward, on learning of the fate of Maubila, sent envoys of peace to DeSoto, attended with assurances of good will and of friendship. Stricken with terror by the feat of the valiant white invader, they were anxious to placate him in advance. Whatever may have been their sentiments before, they were now sycophantic enough. Among the Indian visitors it was said by some that the Chief Tuskaloosa had fled during the battle, but the general opinion was that he had perished. These same Indian envoys told DeSoto that the great chief had long been planning for the extinction of the Spanish host, and that his plot was deeply laid, which news served to encourage the Spaniard with the belief that he had committed no blunder in overthrowing him. These envoys gave partial nerve to DeSoto in his growing perplexity and despondency.

While the commander sat alone in his tent meditating on what course he should pursue, his men nursed their wounds, and with returning relief, they became the same volatile spirits as before. Up to this time, their confidence in their leader had been supreme. While they did not comprehend his unusual moroseness, and while no one would venture to approach him with any degree of familiarity, they confided in his judgment, and lolled the days away in utter indifference of the future. Sprawled on their rough pallets of leaves and straw, or else stretched on the grass beneath the wide trees, they would while away the time gambling. Their cards had been destroyed by the fire, but they improvised others. They were inveterate gamblers. Throughout the entire march these reckless fellows gambled at every halt. Money, jewelry, horses, clothing, and even Indian mistresses were staked in the games. With nothing now to beguile the tedium of the camp, they whiled away the days in gaming, while the demure commander sat alone in his tent doubtful as to what to do next. Heartened by the reports of the envoys, DeSoto finally almost resolved to push westward, but an unexpected dilemma arose for which he was least prepared. Idleness was demoralizing his men, and an unlooked-for trouble was in store for him, the news of which almost stunned him, when he learned it. Far severer and sorer than any yet encountered, it went to his heart like cold steel, when once it was realized.