felt a strong inclination to get away. He tried to tear himself free
with his forepaws, but Papayuchisew--slow to reason but of firm
conviction--hung to Baree's ear like grim fate.

At this critical point, when the understanding of defeat was forming
itself swiftly in Baree's mind, chance saved him. His fangs closed on
one of the owlet's tender feet. Papayuchisew gave a sudden squeak. The
ear was free at last--and with a snarl of triumph Baree gave a vicious
tug at Papayuchisew's leg.

In the excitement of battle he had not heard the rushing tumult of the
creek close under them, and over the edge of a rock Papayuchisew and he
went together, the chill water of the rain-swollen stream muffling a
final snarl and a final hiss of the two little fighters.



CHAPTER 3

To Papayuchisew, after his first mouthful of water, the stream was
almost as safe as the air, for he went sailing down it with the
lightness of a gull, wondering in his slow-thinking big head why he was
moving so swiftly and so pleasantly without any effort of his own.

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