Carlos would later prove to be right.
Miguel's journey to the Spanish garrison in Antioquia was not unopposed, but neither was it the ambush Carlos had feared. Along the road, they faced several small raids—poorly organized, more probing than decisive. Men appeared briefly at the edges of the jungle, muskets raised but rarely fired, testing reactions rather than committing. Each time, Miguel's group drove them off with discipline and speed, refusing to pursue. The road itself was the greater enemy.
They traveled hard for three days.
To reach Santa Fe de Antioquia in that time required changing horses at least once, sometimes twice. The animals steamed under the tropical sun, their flanks dark with sweat, hooves cracking against stone and hardened mud. Every stop was brief: water, a mouthful of dried meat, a quick tightening of straps. To linger was to invite exhaustion—or worse.
