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.

Omas would have had a rather pleasing face had he let it alone;
but his people love bright colors, and he was never seen without
a lot of paint daubed over it. This was made up of black, white,
and yellow circles, lines, and streaks that made him look frightful.

But Alice was not scared at all. She and Omas were old friends.