Fred Godfrey was almost in sight of his home, when he was both pleased and alarmed by coming upon an estray horse. He was saddled and bridled, and though contentedly cropping the grass at the roadside, the perspiration and jaded look showed that he had come from the battle-ground. It was startling to know that such was the fact, and supplemented as it was by the reports of guns, shouts, and the black volumes of smoke pouring upward, Fred was filled with an anguish of misgiving.
Without stopping to make inquiries or to guess who could have owned the estray steed, the young patriot slipped forward, caught the bridle before the animal had time to scent danger, and vaulting lightly into the saddle, turned the head of the horse toward Wyoming, and striking his heels against his ribs, quickly urged him to a dead run.
"I am needed there," said Fred, urging his spirited animal still more, and peering down the highway; "you're the best horse I ever rode, but I can't afford to spare you now."
Fred Godfrey not only was close to the stirring scenes that marked that memorable massacre, but he was among them sooner even than he anticipated.
CHAPTER II.
Just here we must turn aside for a minute or two, in order to understand the situation.
On the third of July, Colonel Zebulon Butler, of the Continental army, had marched forth at the head of his two hundred and odd boys, old men, and a few able-bodied soldiers to meet his cousin, the British Colonel Butler, with his horde of soldiers, Tories, and Iroquois Indians.
"We come out to fight, not only for liberty," said the patriot leader, as the battle was about to open, "but for our lives and that which is dearer than our lives—to preserve our homes from conflagration, and our wives and children from the tomahawk."
For a time all went well, and Colonel Zebulon Butler began to hope that the marauders would be driven off, but his force was unsteady, and some of them gave way when they saw their enemies as they swarmed out of the woods and assailed them.