"You mean Black Jack?"

"Yes, Black Jack loaned me a parka."

"Well, git now--an' put them new duds on, an' come back here, pausin'
only long enough to stick them hen-skins in the stove--shoes, overcoat,
an' the whole mess. You're in a man's country, now, son," continued
Waseche in a kindly tone. "An' you've got to look like a man--an' act
like a man--an' _be_ a man. You've got a lot to live down--with a name
like that--an' a woman's job--an' a busted lung--an' a servant's
manners. I never seen anyone quite so bad off to start with. What you'll
be in a year from now is up to you--an' me. I guarantee you'll have good
lungs, an' a man's name--the rest is fer you to do. Git, now--an' hurry
back."

The young man opened his lips, but somehow the words would not come,
and Waseche interrupted him. "By the way, did you tell anyone your name
around here?" he asked.

The other shook his head, and as he turned to get his overcoat a
commotion drew both to the window. A dog team was climbing the creek
bank. Connie Morgan was driving, urging the dogs up the deep slope, and
on the sled was an Indian wrapped in blankets. Neither Connie nor the
Indian received more than a passing glance, for in the lead of the team,
sharp pointed muzzle low to the ground and huge shoulders heaving into
the harness, was the great wolf-dog that Connie had found guarding the
unconscious form of his master from the attack of the wolf pack. A cry
escaped the stenographer's lips and even Waseche gasped as he took in
the details of the superb animal.

Percival instinctively drew closer. "It's--it's--the great wolf we saw
on the trail! Black Jack Demeree said he'd never seen his like. Oh, he
can't get in here, can he?"

Waseche shook the speaker roughly by the shoulder. "Yes--he can," he
answered. "He'll be in here in just about a minute--an' here's where
you start bein' a man. Don't you squinch back--if he eats you up! The
next ten minutes will make or break you, for good an' all." And hardly
were the words out of his mouth than the door burst open and Connie
entered the office, closely followed by the Indian and Leloo, the great
ruffed wolf-dog.

"I got him, Waseche!" he cried. "He's mine! I'll tell you all about it
later--this is 'Merican Joe."

The Indian nodded and grinned toward the boy.

"_Skookum tillicum_," he grunted.

"You bet!" assented Waseche, and as Connie led the great dog to him, the
man laid his hand on the huge ruff of silvered h