Signs now grow more ominous and rapidly, and DeSoto begins to fear the worst. This is his greatest dilemma. He would avoid a clash if he could, and fight only if he must. The occasion has become tense, and he thinks and plans fast. The Indians have largely vanished from sight in rather a mysterious way, and those now huddled on the square are in close conference. A Spanish spy whispers to DeSoto that a thousand warriors, well armed, are concentrated in one of the large buildings, while in another is a large supply of Indian munitions of war. The crisis is graver than he had apprehended. The Spaniard dreaded Indian treachery the more because it might exceed that of his own. That which he has just learned is startling, and shows that he has not been mistaken in his suspicions.

Meanwhile DeSoto keeps up negotiations with the chief, but receives only rebuff. Meanwhile, also, he is sending secret orders to his men to be ready at any moment and for any emergency. He now realizes his error in allowing Tuskaloosa to get beyond his grasp. That which he now wishes is to have him once more in his possession, and to this end he is working. His flattery is profuse, his promises to the chief extravagant. His principal hope lies in gaining the possession once more of his person. He plies his ingenuity by cajolery, and by all the arts known to the flatterer, but the foxy Indian had himself recently learned some lessons of Spanish character, and he is as anxious to keep himself beyond the reach of DeSoto, as DeSoto’s anxiety is to gain possession of him. In one of the buildings, Tuskaloosa is holding a council with his leading spirits, as message after message comes from DeSoto. The Indian is not so unskilled in the art of deception, that he does not see through the thin guise of the purpose of the Spaniard. “Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird.” While the negotiations are thus pending, while the parleying and dallying are going on, an Indian warrior dashes from the assembled host, and with stentorian voice attended with grim expressions of heated hostility, denounces the Spaniards as robbers, thieves and murderers—denounces DeSoto for holding in captivity the beloved chief, who is as free as the Spaniards, and as good as the Spanish leader himself, meanwhile making as though he would shoot with an arrow into the Spanish ranks. Truth is hard, and sometimes hurts. DeSoto is inclined to disregard all this. The fact is, there was a mutual and balanced fear between the two parties. Each feared the other; each was equally doubtful of an issue joined.

What might have been the result had not a most untimely occurrence taken place, cannot be imagined, but a Spanish cavalier standing near the warrior who gave vent to the speech just referred to, irritated beyond control, clove him asunder with a heavy sword, and his bowels gushed out in sight of all present. This is the touch of the match to the magazine. Like the muffled roar of a distant storm, the savages quickly gather, and in fury rush on the Spaniards, who stand with entire self-collection as though nothing was occurring. Checked by this marvelous coolness, the Indians hesitate, and with the utmost precision, the Spaniards march outside the walls, excepting fifteen, who alarmed by the outbreak, flee into a room of one of the buildings and close fast the door.

Once beyond the gate, the Spaniards wheel in defiance and show battle. Their eyes flash terror, their attitude is one of ferocity. DeSoto has less than a hundred men, as the infantry has not yet arrived. Soon it appears, however, and gives fresh nerve. Save the unfortunate killing of the warrior, nothing has been yet done to indicate an approaching battle, though the signs thicken fast. The low thud of hurrying feet within the walls, while all else is silent, betokens trouble. The Spaniards have but a minute or so to wait, before indications of hostility are manifest. The camp equipage has been left by the Spaniards on the square, as well as the Indian prisoners, who had been used all the way from Coosa as burden bearers. The baggage is burned and the prisoners are freed. The iron collars are taken from their necks, and the chains from their wrists, and bows and clubs are placed in their hands to avenge themselves of their oppressors. The fifteen who fled into one of the buildings are still cut off, and the situation is ominously acute.

The delay is only temporary, for soon the savages pour through the gateway with demoniacal yelling, while a thousand swift arrows plow the air. Five Spaniards of the little band fall dead, and DeSoto receives a wound. Regardless of the flowing blood, he leads his command to meet the shock of the foe. Surprised at courage so unusual, the savages falter, then rush back within the gate and make it fast. They now turn to the destruction of the fifteen penned within the room, and seek to force the door, but as each savage shows himself the enclosed men shoot him down. Some of the best of DeSoto’s fighters are shut within that room—among them are five of DeSoto’s bodyguard, some crossbowmen, two priests, and a friendly Indian. Their doom seems certain, but they are fighting like bayed tigers. Unable to force the door, the Indians climb to the top of the walls, and begin to tear up the roof in order to reach them, but again as an Indian comes within view he is killed. The dead are heaped before the door, they lie in a pile on the roof.

Meanwhile there is no slack in the fighting at the front. The Spanish assault the walls, but are driven back, though in perfect order. Encouraged by this, and believing the battle already won, the Indians again throw open the big gate and rush with fury on the Spaniards. Indians know little of the value of a retreat in order to rally, and are stunned by the steadiness and nerve with which they are met. Now begins the battle in downright earnestness.

DeSoto is at great disadvantage both in numbers and in supplies of munitions. Moscoso lingers with the reserves. He is much in need, should be here, but delays. With strained vision, DeSoto looks for his lieutenant, but he comes not. The fight is now hand to hand. The Indians are perhaps fifty to one against the Spaniards, but order and discipline, powder and ball, crossbow and sword, horse and armor prevail against the odds. DeSoto leads his troops in person. His men are animated by his dauntless presence and the terror of his execution. He fights like a common trooper. The blood still oozes from his wound, but he fights on still. The Spaniards not only hold their own, but force the savages back.

At this juncture Moscoso arrives. The Indians rush again within the walls and make fast the gate. DeSoto now plans for the final onset. His heavy ordnance is to be brought into prompt execution. On the spot he organizes his detachments, and while the arrows are flying, he assigns to each body its task in the closing scene of the drama. Coolness like this is almost superhuman, but DeSoto is not cooler than his men.

The axes begin to ring on the gate. Nerved now to desperation by this, the Indians fight with more ferocity than ever. With resounding blows the axes fall on the doomed gate. From the summit of the walls and from the portholes the arrows are rained down on the Spaniards, but striking their encased armor glide off. Huge pebbles, the size of a man’s fist and larger, fall like hailstones upon their helmets, but to no effect. The gate begins to give way, it reels, it falls with a creaking crash, and the Spaniards sweep within. Indians and Spaniards alike fight like demons. DeSoto still leads, hewing down man after man with his broadsword. His men follow with equal execution.

Torches in hand, the walls are being fired. The thick plastering is knocked off and in many places, the fires begin. Ladders are improvised, the walls are scaled, and near the summit the torch is applied. The fifteen pent-up men are released, jump with exhilaration into the fray, and do deadlier work than the others. The fires begin to climb the walls. They toss high in air their forked tongues. In a swaying column the smoke darkens the heavens.

For nine long hours the battle has raged without cessation, and the end is not yet. Yells, orders, shrieks, the clang of steel, the stroke of axes, the roar and crackle of flames mingle in common confusion. DeSoto rushes on a big warrior, raises his lance to drive it through him and receives a long arrow in his thigh. He cannot stop to extricate it now, and while it is protruding, and is much in his way, he fights on like a demon unchained. Rising in his saddle he sways his sword about his head and yells, “Our Lady and Santiago!” and plunges anew into the storm of battle. Spurring his horse into the thickest of the fight, he lays many a warrior low.

The Indians begin to break away. They rapidly disappear. The fires become intense, unbearable. It is a circle of flame leaping from eighty buildings of dried wood, all at once. The fires rage. The dead braves lie in heaps both within and without the wall. The blood stands in puddles over a wide area. At last there are no Indians to fight. They have fled in confusion to the woods, and DeSoto is master of the situation.

October 18, 1540, remains to this time the date of the bloodiest Indian battle that was ever fought. The sun goes down on a city which in the early hours of the day resounded with the sound of cane lutes, and the voices of many dancers. The mighty buildings which met the astonished gaze of the Spanish conqueror, are now a mass of charred ruins. The autumn grass, green and luxuriant in the morning, is now red with gore. The populous city of ten hours before is deserted. The great trees, rich in foliage, are now blasted and seared. Where peace and prosperity were, havoc is now enthroned. DeSoto had won; his greatest obstruction is now out of his way, but fresh, and now unconjectured, troubles await him for which he is ill prepared.