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.