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 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 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 centre of it. It was
Nekik, the otter.
The otter had not heard Baree, and in another moment Napanekik, his
wife, came sailing out of a patch of gloom, and behind her came three
little otters, leaving behind them four shimmering wakes in the
oily-looking water. What happened after that made Baree forget for a few
minutes that he was lost. Nekik had disappeared under the surface, and
now he came up directly under his unsuspecting mate with a force that
lifted her half out of the water. Instantly he was gone again, and
Napanekik took after him fiercely. To Baree it did not look like play.
Two of the baby otters had pitched on the third, which seemed to be
fighting desperately. The chill and ache went out of Baree’s body. His
blood ran excitedly; he forgot himself, and let out a bark. In a flash
the otters disappeared. For several minutes the water in the pool
continued to rock and heave—and that was all. After a little, Baree drew
himself back into the bushes and went on.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun should still
have been well up in the sky. But it was growing darker steadily, and
the strangeness and fear of it all lent greater speed to Baree’s legs.
He stopped every little while to listen, and at one of these intervals
he heard a sound that drew from him a responsive and joyous whine. It
was a distant howl—a wolf’s howl—straight ahead of him. Baree was not
thinking of wolves but of Kazan, and he ran through the gloom of the
forest until he was winded. Then he stopped and listened a long time.
The wolf-howl did not come again. Instead of it there rolled up from the
west a deep and thunderous rumble. Through the treetops there flashed a
vivid streak of lightning. A moaning whisper of wind rode in advance of
the storm; the thunder grew nearer; and a second flash of lightning
seemed searching Baree out where he stood shivering under a canopy of
great spruce. This was his second storm. The first had frightened him
terribly, and he had crawled far back into the shelter of the windfall.
The best he could find now was a hollow under a big root, and into this
he slunk, crying softly. It was a babyish cry, a cry for his mother, for
home, for warmth, for something soft and protecting to nestle up to; and
as he cried, the storm burst over the forest.
Baree had never before heard so much noise, and he had never seen the
lightning play in such sheets of fire as when this June deluge fell. It
seemed at times as though the whole world were aflame, and the earth
seemed to shake and roll under the crashes of the thunder. He ceased his
crying and made himself as small as he could under the root, which
protected him partly from the terrific beat of the rain which came down
through the treetops in a flood. It was now so black that except when
the lightning ripped great holes in the gloom he could not see the
spruce-trunks twenty feet away. Twice that distance from Baree there was
a huge dead stub that stood out like a ghost each time the fires swept
the sky, as if defying the flaming hands up there to strike—and strike,
at last, one of them did! A bluish tongue of snapping flame ran down the
old stub; and as it touched the earth, there came a tremendous explosion
above the treetops. The massive stub shivered, and then it broke asunder
as if cloven by a gigantic axe. It crashed down so close to Baree that
earth and sticks flew about him, and he let out a wild yelp of terror as
he tried to crowd himself deeper into the shallow hole under the root.
With the destruction of the old stub the thunder and lightning seemed to
have vented their malevolence. The thunder passed on into the south and
east like the rolling of ten thousand heavy cart-wheels over the roofs
of the forest, and the lightning went with it. The rain fell steadily.
The hole in which he had taken shelter was soppy. He was drenched; his
teeth chattered as he waited for the next thing to happen.
It was a long wait. When the rain stopped, and the sky cleared, it was
night. Through the tops of the trees Baree could have seen the stars if
he had poked out his head and looked upward. But he clung to his hole.
Hour after hour passed. Exhausted, half drowned, footsore, and hungry,
he did not move. At last he fell into a troubled sleep, a sleep in which
every now and then he cried softly and forlornly for his mother. When he
ventured out from under the root it was morning, and the sun was
shining.
At first Baree could hardly stand. His legs were cramped; every bone in
his body seemed out of joint; his ear was stiff where the blood had
oozed out of it and hardened, and when he tried to wrinkle his wounded
nose, he gave a sharp little yap of pain. If such a thing were possible,
he looked even worse than he felt. His hair had dried in muddy patches;
he was dirt-stained from end to end; and where yesterday he had been
plump and shiny, he was now as thin and wretched as misfortune could
possibly make him. And he was hungry. He had never before known what it
meant to be really hungry.
When he went on, continuing in the direction he had been following
yesterday, he slunk along in a disheartened sort of way. His head and
ears were no longer alert, and his curiosity was gone. He was not only
stomach-hungry: mother-hunger rose above his physical yearning for
something to eat. He wanted his mother as he had never wanted her before
in his life. He wanted to snuggle his shivering little body close up to
her and feel the warm caressing of her tongue and listen to the
mothering whine of her voice. And he wanted Kazan, and the old windfall,
and that big blue spot that was in the sky right over it. While he
followed again along the edge of the creek, he whimpered for them as a
child might grieve.
The forest grew more open after a time, and this cheered him up a
little. Also the warmth of the sun was taking the ache out of his body.
He grew hungrier and hungrier. He had depended entirely on Kazan and
Gray Wolf for food. His parents had, in some ways, made a great baby of
him. Gray Wolf’s blindness accounted for this, for since his birth she
had not taken up her hunting with Kazan, and it was quite natural that
Baree should stick close to her, though more than once he had been
filled with a great yearning to follow his father. Nature was hard at
work trying to overcome its handicap now. It was struggling to impress
on Baree that the time had now come when he must seek his own food. The
fact impinged itself upon him slowly but steadily, and he began to think
of the three or four shellfish he had caught and devoured on the stony
creek-bar near the windfall. He also remembered the open clam-shell he
had found, and the lusciousness of the tender morsel inside it. A new
excitement began to possess him. He became, all at once, a hunter.
With the thinning out of the forest the creek grew more shallow. It ran
again over bars of sand and stones, and Baree began to nose along the
edge of these. For a long time he had no success. The few crayfish that
he saw were exceedingly lively and elusive, and all the clam-shells were
shut so tight that even Kazan’s powerful jaws would have had difficulty
in smashing them. It was almost noon when he caught his first crayfish,
about as big as a man’s forefinger. He devoured it ravenously. The taste
of food gave him fresh courage. He caught two more crayfish during the
afternoon. It was almost dusk when he stirred a young rabbit out from
under a cover of grass. If he had been a month older, he could have
caught it. He was still very hungry, for three crayfish—scattered
through the day—had not done much to fill the emptiness that was growing
steadily in him.
With the approach of night Baree’s fears and great loneliness returned.
Before the day had quite gone he found himself a shelter under a big
rock, where there was a warm, soft bed of sand. Since his fight with
Papayuchisew, he had travelled a long distance, and the rock under which
he made his bed this night was at least eight or nine miles from the
windfall. It was in the open of the creek-bottom, with the dark forest
of spruce and cedars close on either side; and when the moon rose, and
the stars filled the sky, Baree could look out and see the water of the
stream shimmering in a glow almost as bright as day. Directly in front
of him, running to the water’s edge, was a broad carpet of white sand.
Across this sand, half an hour later, came a huge black bear.
Until Baree had seen the otters at play in the creek, his conceptions of
the forests had not gone beyond his own kind, and such creatures as owls
and rabbits and small feathered things. The otters had not frightened
him, because he still measured things by size, and Nekik was not half as
big as Kazan. But the bear was a monster beside which Kazan would have
stood a mere pigmy. He was big. If nature was taking this way of
introducing Baree to the fact that there were more important creatures
in the forests than dogs and wolves and owls and crayfish, she was
driving the point home with a little more than necessary emphasis. For
Wakayoo, the bear, weighed six hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce. He
was fat and sleek from a month’s feasting on fish. His shiny coat was
like black velvet in the moonlight, and he walked with a curious rolling
motion with his head hung low. The horror grew when he stopped broadside
in the carpet of sand not more than ten feet from the rock under which
Baree was shivering as if he had the ague.
It was quite evident that Wakayoo had caught scent of him in the air.
Baree could hear him sniff—could hear his breathing—caught the starlight
flashing in his reddish-brown eyes as they swung suspiciously toward the
big boulder. If Baree could have known then that _he_—his insignificant
little self—was making that monster actually nervous and uneasy, he
would have given a yelp of joy. For Wakayoo, in spite of his size, was
somewhat of a coward when it came to wolves. And Baree carried the
wolf-scent. It grew stronger in Wakayoo’s nose; and just then, as if to
increase whatever nervousness was growing in him, there came from out of
the forest behind him a long and wailing howl.
With an audible grunt, Wakayoo moved on. Wolves were pests, he argued.
They wouldn’t stand up and fight. They’d snap and yap at one’s heels for
hours at a time, and were always out of the way quicker than a wink when
one turned on them. What was the use of hanging around where there were
wolves, on a beautiful night like this? He lumbered on decisively. Baree
could hear him splashing heavily through the water of the creek. Not
until then did the wolf-dog draw a full breath. It was almost a gasp.
But the excitement was not over for the night. Baree had chosen his bed
at a place where the animals came down to drink, and where they crossed
from one of the creek forests to the other. Not long after the bear had
disappeared he heard a heavy crunching in the sand, and hoofs rattling
against stones, and a bull moose with a huge sweep of antlers passed
through the open space in the moonlight. Baree stared with popping eyes,
for if Wakayoo had weighed six hundred pounds, this gigantic creature
whose legs were so long that it seemed to be walking on stilts weighed
at least twice as much. A cow moose followed, and then a calf. The calf
seemed all legs. It was too much for Baree, and he shoved himself
farther and farther back under the rock until he lay wedged in like a
sardine in a box. And there he lay until morning.