Mukoki, too, had heard Rod's remark and was listening.

"Rod," continued Wabigoon quietly, "that is one thing we don't have up
here. Our great big glorious North doesn't know the word thief, except
when it is applied to a Woonga. If a white hunter came along here
to-morrow, and found that hide stretched so low that the animals were
getting at it, he would nail it higher for us. An Indian, if he camped
here, would build his fire so that the sparks wouldn't strike it. Rod,
up here, where we don't know civilization, we're honest!"

"But down in the States," said Rod, "the Indians steal."

The words slipped from him. The next instant he would have given
anything to have been able to recall them. Mukoki had grown a little
more tense in his attitude.

"That's because white men have lived so much among them, white men who
are called civilized," answered the young scion of Wabinosh House, his
eyes growing bright. "White blood makes thieves. Pardon me for saying
it, Rod, but it does, at least among Indians. But our white blood
up here is different from yours. It's the same blood that's in our
Indians, every drop of it honest, loyal to its friends, and it runs
red and strong with the love of this great wilderness. There are
exceptions, of course, as you have seen in the Woongas, who are an
outlaw race. But we are honest, and Mukoki there, if he were dying of
cold, wouldn't steal a skin to save himself. An ordinary Indian might
take it, if he were dying for want of it, but not unless he had a gun
to leave in its place!"

"I didn't mean to say what I did," said Rod. "Oh, I wish I were one