Six hours later, the army reached the lands surrounding San Jerónimo.
The soldiers prayed more fervently as they advanced through the hills, as if the very air of the place weighed heavier on their souls. Yet in San Jerónimo itself, the cacique Don Melchor de Guarcama had no intention of answering those prayers with mercy.
"The traitors of the King are coming again, sir," reported the war captain—a young warrior personally chosen by Melchor. "This time their army is larger. They even bring cavalry and cannons."
Unlike the mestizos of San Lorenzo, who still pretended to be indigenous to preserve their noble titles, the people of San Jerónimo were indigenous in truth. They trained constantly, fought as one, and lived by the old ways. Their cacique was no ceremonial lord, but a hardened warrior—broad, powerful, and experienced in battle.
Melchor smiled.
"That is good," he said. "Prepare the horses. We attack again."
His voice carried no hesitation.
