But all this was changed now.  With his ready skill Sperry had become, by the turn of his hand, so to speak, the Medicine Man of the tribe.  They were even ready to let down their social barriers and extend to him all their friendship—­a friendship he could have relied on for the rest of his days.

“Dunno as I ever see a neater job,” remarked a big fellow—­a former doubter—­peering over the shoulders of the crowd, intent on the doctor’s handling of the wounded arm.

“Yes—­yes—­” drawled the Clown.  “Goll! seems ’ough he knowed jest whar to take hold.”

“There,” said Sperry, as he gave a final adjustment to the improvised bandage.  “You had better get him to bed.”

“By gar, Doc’,” grunted the little man between his teeth, “what you goin’ to do now, hein!  I feel lot bettaire I tink eff I tak a drink.”  He had not even asked for a drop of water before, nor had he spoken a word.

“He may have it,” said Sperry, in the voice he used at consultations.

The Clown poured a tin cup full of whiskey and the little man drained it to the last drop.

“He’ll suffer,” said Sperry, turning to the trapper, “when the arm begins to swell under the bandage.”

“Broke bad, Doc’?” asked the trapper.

“Yes, a compound fracture; but he’ll be all right, my man, in a few weeks.”  Sperry opened a thin leather case, which he took from his bag, extracted a phial, and shook two whitish gray pills into the trapper’s palm.  “Give him one in an hour, and another to-night if he can’t sleep,” he said.  He went over to the patient, felt his pulse, then with a nod to the rest, he started toward the door.

“Hold on, Doc’!” came from half a dozen in the group of lumber jacks; “won’t ye take a leetle somethin’ ’fore ye go?”

Sperry shook his head and smiled.  “No, thank you,” he said, half amused.  “I seldom take anything before luncheon.”

“But, say—­we’d like to fix it with ye—­what’s the damage, Doc’?” and half a dozen rough hands went into their trousers pockets.  But Sperry only waved his hand in an embarrassed way in protest, and added: 

“Of course not—­what I have done for one of you men, I would do for anybody.  I shall see him in the morning”—­and he strode out of the shanty.

By this time the little Frenchman’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily—­he was dead drunk.

“Goll! warn’t that an awful hooker ye give him, Freme?” asked the trapper.  He turned to the sufferer, now that the doctor had disappeared, and drew an extra blanket tenderly over him.

“Wall, he ain’t no home’path,” replied the Clown with a grin; “’sides, I presume likely he needed all he could git down him.”

* * * * *