But no blows of consequence were struck, and the riders returned. That night a grave council was held. The women were frightened by the murderous attack; some of the men began to see visions of constant fighting ahead with little time for profitable work; and so they lost heart in the enterprise. They thought it best that they return.
But Boone, his brother, and others of the party were for pushing on.
“Attacks by the Indians are to be expected,” said the pioneer; “they will always resist the march of the white man. And if we are to settle the rich country on the other side of the hills, it’s not by weakening under the first blow they strike. We must press forward; we must strike back; we must never for a moment show the varmints that we fear them.”
But the bold counsel of Daniel was not listened to. The shock of the attack, the loss of the cattle, the six youths slain, all in a moment’s time, hung heavily over the spirits of the emigrants, clouding them with gloom. It was agreed among them that they would start at sunrise and head back for the settlements.
On that first spiritless day of the return march, Oliver Barclay found himself by the side of Boone.
“Heading back for Hillsboro?” he asked.
Boone shook his head.
“No; for the Virginia settlements on the Clinch River,” he replied.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Oliver, whose hopes had received a shattering blow by the sudden change of front, “that we need not give the matter up after all.”
Boone looked at him questioningly.