The mountaineers had come out to do a certain thing—­to kill Ferguson and scatter his troops.  They had done it, and now they wished to go home.  The little log-huts in which their families lived were in daily danger of Indian attack; and it was absolutely necessary that they should be on hand to protect them.  They were, for the most part, very poor men, whose sole sources of livelihood were the stock they kept beyond the mountains.  They loved their country greatly, and had shown the sincerity of their patriotism by the spontaneous way in which they risked their lives on this expedition.  They had no hope of reward; for they neither expected nor received any pay, except in liquidated certificates, worth two cents on the dollar.  Shelby’s share of these, for his services as colonel throughout ’80 and ’81, was sold by him for “six yards of middling broadcloth” [Footnote:  Shelby’s MS. autobiography.]; so it can be readily imagined how little each private got for the King’s Mountain expedition. [Footnote:  Among these privates was the father of Davy Crockett.]

The day after the battle the Americans fell back towards the mountains, fearing lest, while cumbered by prisoners and wounded, they should be struck by Tarleton or perhaps Cruger.  The prisoners were marched along on foot, each carrying one or two muskets, for twelve hundred stand of arms had been captured.  The Americans had little to eat, and were very tired; but the plight of the prisoners was pitiable.  Hungry, footsore, and heartbroken, they were hurried along by the fierce and boastful victors, who gloried in the vengeance they had taken, and recked little of such a virtue as magnanimity to the fallen.  The only surgeon in either force was Ferguson’s.  He did what he could for the wounded; but that was little enough, for, of course, there were no medical stores whatever.  The Americans buried their dead in graves, and carried their wounded along on horse-litters.  The wounded loyalists were left on the field, to be cared for by the neighboring people.  The conquerors showed neither respect nor sympathy for the leader who had so gallantly fought them. [Footnote:  But the accounts of indignity being shown him are not corroborated by Allaire and Ryerson, the two contemporary British authorities, and are probably untrue.] His body and the bodies of his slain followers were cast into two shallow trenches, and loosely covered with stones and earth.  The wolves, coming to the carnage, speedily dug up the carcasses, and grew so bold from feasting at will on the dead that they no longer feared the living.  For months afterwards King’s Mountain was a favorite resort for wolf hunters.