The Daughter of the Chieftain

She wore a brown homespun dress--that is to say, the materials

had been woven by the deft fingers of her mother, with the aid of

the old spinning wheel, which in those days formed a part of every

household. The dark stockings were knitted by the same busy fingers,

with the help of the flashing needles; and the shoes, put together

by Peleg Quintin, the humpbacked shoemaker, were heavy and coarse,

and did not fit any too well.

The few simple articles of underwear were all homemade, clean,

and comfortable, and the same could be said of the clothing of the

brother and of the mother herself.

Alice came running out of the open front door, bounding off the big

flat stone which served as a step with a single leap, and, running

to a spot of green grass a few yards away, where there was not a

bit of dirt or a speck of dust, she sat down and began the game of

which I told you at the opening of this story.

Alice was left handed. So when she took position, she leaned over

to the right, supporting her body with that arm, while with the

other hand she tossed the little jagged pieces of stone aloft,

snatching up the others, and letting the one that was going up and

down in the air drop into her chubby palm.

She had been playing perhaps ten minutes, when she found someone

was watching her.

She did not see him at first, but heard a low, deep "Huh!" partly

at one side and partly behind her.

Instead of glancing around, she finished the turn of the game on

which she was engaged just then. That done, she clasped all the

Jack Stones in her hand, assumed the upright posture, and looked

behind her.

"I thought it was you, Omas," she said with a merry laugh; "do you

want to play Jack Stones with me?"

If you could have seen the person whom she thus addressed, you

would have thought it a strange way of speaking.

He was an Indian warrior, belonging to the tribe of Delawares.

Those who knew about him said he was one of the fiercest red men

that ever went on the warpath. A few years before, there had been

a massacre of the settlers, and Omas was foremost among the Indians

who swung the tomahawk and fired his rifle at the white people.

He was tall, sinewy, active, and powerful. Three stained eagle

feathers were fastened on his crown in the long black hair, and his

hunting shirt, leggings, and moccasins were bright with different

colored beads and fringes. In the red sash which passed around

his waist were thrust a hunting knife and tomahawk, while one hand

clasped a cumbersome rifle, which, like all firearms of those times,

was used with ramrod and flintlock.