THE WHITE WORLD 



might have some chance of saving my life. I manned it 

 among floating ice and logs and through rapids, and was 

 swept by strong currents past ugly snags; strong side 

 winds sometimes drove me on shore ; but in spite of all my 

 discouragements, two days after leaving Hell Gate, Zilla 

 and I landed at Fort Liard, a little Hudson Bay trading 

 place, one hundred and fifty miles below, without acci- 

 dent or the loss of an ounce of my outfit. 



Zilla, the most faithful animal I ever knew — though 

 only an Indian dog — died the following winter, on Christ- 

 mas eve, just to the west of the mouth of the Mackenzie, 

 on the Arctic coast. He was sick, his feet had been frozen 

 and were very much swollen, his coat of hair was not heavy 

 enough for those regions, and he had worked and suffered 

 until his heart was broken. I buried him Christmas morn- 

 ing in a snowy grave, and as I turned away the tears came 

 to my eyes. I felt that I was leaving behind one of the 

 dearest and most faithful of friends, and I shall never for- 

 get my only companion at Hell Gate. 



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