“He was leading his horse to the brook to drink. The Indians were hid in the bushes; the horse either saw or smelt them, and wouldn’t go to the water. My grandfather tried to get him to go at first, but in a minute he thought it was Indians, and jumped on his back and set him into a run. The Indians gave chase, and one of them threw a tomahawk, and struck it into the side of his neck; he kept on the horse just long enough to reach home, and fell on the door-step; and for all the horse run, the Indians were at the door almost as soon as he. My uncle fired and shot one of them, and they went off; but my grandfather died about sundown.”