To Baree it was a different matter.  He went down almost like a stone.  A mighty roaring filled his ears; it was dark, suffocating, terrible.  In the swift current he was twisted over and over.  For a distance of twenty feet he was under water.  Then he rose to the surface and desperately began using his legs.  It was of little use.  He had only time to blink once or twice and catch a lungful of air when he shot into a current that was running like a millrace between the butts of two fallen trees, and for another twenty feet the sharpest eyes could not have seen hair or hide of him.  He came up again at the edge of a shallow riffle over which the water ran like the rapids at Niagara in miniature, and for fifty or sixty yards he was flung along like a hairy ball.  From this he was hurled into a deep, cold pool.  And then—­half dead—­he found himself crawling out on a gravelly bar.

For a long time Baree lay there in a pool of sunlight without moving.  His ear hurt him; his nose was raw, and burned as if he had thrust it into fire.  His legs and body were sore, and as he began to wander along the gravel bar, he was quite probably the most wretched pup in the world.  He was also completely turned around.  In vain he looked about him for some familiar mark—­something that might guide him back to his windfall home.  Everything was strange.  He did not know that the water had flung him out on the wrong side of the stream, and that to reach the windfall he would have to cross it again.  He whined, but that was as loud as his voice rose.  Gray Wolf could have heard his barking, for the windfall was not more than two hundred and fifty yards up the stream.  But the wolf in Baree held him silent, except for his low whining.

Striking the main shore, Baree began going downstream.  This was away from the windfall, and each step that he took carried him farther and farther from home.  Every little while he stopped and listened.  The forest was deeper.  It was growing blacker and more mysterious.  Its silence was frightening.  At the end of half an hour Baree would even have welcomed Papayuchisew.  And he would not have fought him—­he would have inquired, if possible, the way back home.

Baree was fully three-quarters of a mile from the windfall when he came to a point where the creek split itself into two channels.  He had but one choice to follow—­the stream that flowed a little south and east.  This stream did not run swiftly.  It was not filled with shimmering riffles, and rocks about which the water sang and foamed.  It grew black, like the forest.  It was still and deep.  Without knowing it, Baree was burying himself deeper and deeper into Tusoo’s old trapping grounds.  Since Tusoo had died, they had lain undisturbed except for the wolves, for Gray Wolf and Kazan had not hunted on this side of the waterway—­and the wolves themselves preferred the more open country for the chase.

Suddenly Baree found himself at the edge of a deep, dark pool in which the water lay still as oil, and his heart nearly jumped out of his body when a great, sleek, shining creature sprang out from almost under his nose and landed with a tremendous splash in the center of it.  It was Nekik, the otter.