Description: Wild Life Pierce and I beat back and forth across the tumbled ground quite as deliberately as if our hunting might turn something up. What we turned up were castings of delicate tree parts visible on the surface of the frozen flow; a lava sinkhole with logs standing on end as if sucked into it by a whirlpool; natural stone bridges in startling mimicry of those one sees, manmade, in paintings of the Irish countryside; and long, sinuous, caved-in tubes thirty feet wide, the glyphs of molten streams, with ripples and splashes forever imprinted in the stone. Here and there are the shafts and tunnels which are the old burnt-out casts of standing and deadfallen trees. At their apertures such cavities are carpeted with moss and licorice ferns, and littered within by woody debris and sheets of leathery, grayish-green lichen such as my sons declare to be dragon''s skin. And farther inward, midnight darkness. I shined my Everready light down certain of the black maws, used a long stick to plumb some of them, and cast pebbles down into others, but when I plucked up the courage to crawl into one of the longer tunnels--fully had the intent to crawl in--my body was dead-set against it. An affrighted imagination might very well fill the darkness with ghosts or giant man-eating apes, but mine filled the caves and holes with oozy invertebrates, poisonous spiders, and mutant, cave-blind rodents. I''ve never had a fear of tight quarters, and do not fear the dark, so this was something of a surprise; one doesn''t expect to learn a new cowardice at the age of thirty-five. Pierce, in any case, believed such occupation too brutal for a woman--not only the physical rigor, I suppose, but the possibility of discovering a child''s mortified body; and I found myself unexpectedly willing to play the woman''s part. I might perhaps have gotten my heart to quit its frantic racing once I had bored through two or three of the stone tunnels (and, of course, assuming I did not put my hand onto a snake or into a slobbery mouth); but it was Pierce who crawled into these forbidding tubes and descended into the long holes; and so my body went on apart from my intellect, in a rigor of instinctual, aboriginal fear. I lent him my light, and when the batteries gave out, I offered up my little tin match safe. He carried before him into the darkness one flaring match after another, while I waited at the opening and kept an eye out for monsters. I have said nothing until now about this business of ape-men living in the lava beds, but in fact there''s been much agitated muttering among the boys and the sort of nervousness which, in males, presents itself as blustery wrath and fidgety swagger. If Martin Pierce is afraid of crawling unknowingly into a savage den, he never would admit it, but carries a big, solid piece of wood which he pokes in front of him as he advances into each black hole. Poor Almon Pierce, who is a mere boy, younger than his brothers by a margin of twelve or fifteen years, was plainly afraid to be left alone with the horses and begged from his brothers the only weapon the three of them own, a little .22 caliber rifle which I don''t suppose could kill a giant ape regardless. In fact, several of the men possess firearms--even the photographist packed in a .32 caliber takedown rifle on his back with the camera case--and now that we''re among the lava rocks, they''ve begun to sport their weapons about, which to my mind is only further proof of fear. I have an energetic imagination which allows for the existence of wild woods-beasts, and a certain giddiness--perhaps it''s my relish for adventure--which may actually be a wish for their discovery. But when I allow my mind to think of Harriet, it goes directly to a handful of clear visions: to a little broken body at the foot of a rocky escarpment; to a barely living child shivering under blankets of leaves and boughs; to that first, unspeakable image of her delicate girl''s body brutalized and murdered--by a monster, surely, but in human form--no hairy mountain devil. I have even, at times, entertained the idea that she lies buried in a grave dug by an unnatural father. My imagination deserts me when I try to see Harriet carried off on the shoulders of a giant ape-man. I could as soon imagine her whisked away to the See-Ah-Tiks by the gentle Tatoosh. Still, without a doubt this is the wildest, most monstrous landscape I''ve ever known, which may account for my own uneasiness--a sense of being observed. I was throughout the day painfully on the alert, my eyes and ears on a search, my whole body straining and ready for whatever should occur. Some primeval instinct has evidently been startled into activity--an acute wariness that must ordinarily lie asleep in one''s civilized life. When Pierce and I sat to eat our lunch, it was cold and overcast, but no weather had blown over us--my feet were amazingly dry, which is very nearly all I require to be happy. We occupied a small open depression filled with wild currants, mountain box, and elderberry, amid scanty woods of fir and hemlock grown up thinly on the ridge of magma. Standing off to the east some moderate distance it was possible to see the high back of Special Agent Willard''s Mexican saddle. We talked about the weather--uncommonly cold--wouldn''t be surprised to see a dust of snow in the morning--and I asked after Pierce''s mining prospects, which he replied to with vague optimism and more information of cinnabar than I ever yearned to know. Eventually the subject of the explorer''s compass was raised, though I don''t recall which of us raised it first. I allowed as how a compass is a useful tool in the woods, but perhaps a native sense of direction might be better trusted in these kinds of rocks. Pierce modestly agreed: "Maybe it''s the lead ore as takes the compass needle for a spin." Then he said, in a low tone, "This little girl that''s gone lost, she''s your niece, is that right?" When I corrected his misapprehension, he said quietly of Melba and Florence, "Well, it may be imagined what anxiety they''re suffering," which took me aback. I have known the roughest men in the West be made soft and womanish by a child, but it''s also the usual case for men to be entirely taken up with their own heroic efforts and think little of the women waiting at home. I said--and perhaps my tone was supercilious--"Well, they are praying," to which he said, "Yes," his voice sinking lower yet; and nothing further. So that I was forced to turn over the idea that his brain might be more complicated than I had thought. In the afternoon there was a brief flurry of excitement when someone fired off a rifle shot--impossible to tell from which direction. We were, at that time, in view of Gracie Spear and one of the hand-loggers, acting as her partner, and we all four reared up and stood looking and waiting--some of us more reared up than others; but we went on with our business when no further shots sounded. (It proved to be the little Finn named Peter Mer, a peeler from Bill Boyce''s crew, who had stepped into a sinkhole and, losing his balance, had fired his rifle accidentally. I don''t wonder if E. B. Johnson, who was his partner, considers himself fortunate not to be killed.) After ten hours of hard tramping up and down a countryside of rough rocks and dense groves of small trees, we are camped once again, with a great crackling fire to hold back the cold and the phantoms; and the older Pierce brothers have demonstrated the wide scope of their talents by cooking up a decent potato soup, macaroni, and galletta, which is a hard Italian bread one moistens and heats in a fry pan. Earl Norris has set up his camera and taken several pictures of us plying our forks and chewing. Now the boys are lying about, talking and intermittently spitting tobacco juice while stitching up their torn garments, as well as waterproofing the seams of their shoes. I listen while I write, write, write, catching up these events. Politeness and propriety are the order of the day in the presence of two women--or really only one, as Gracie Spear behaves entirely as if a man. Though her natural behavior with her fellow loggers is quite cheerful--much whistling and laughing and humming of gay tunes--she seems to regard me with suspicion, and I am put off by her myself, which I suppose springs from a morbid misgiving. This has put me in a strange way, behaving more nearly ladylike than if I had been alone with the boys. I have abstained from bringing out my tobacco; and earlier, when the youngest Pierce brother pushed a needle through his thumb, I cooed and clucked over him like a mother, and finished sewing up his ragged pants myself. (He has a burn-scarred hand which does not allow of full movement.) Though I suppose this will distance me, in the boys'' eyes, from such as Gracie, I have had a low thrill of worry: that my womanly demeanor might make me attractive to her. How appallingly shallow is one''s broadmindedness and progressivism! Gracie The woman, who wore denim overalls, sat on the veranda steps of the hotel with her forearms across her knees and her booted feet planted exactly as men plant them, immodestly apart. Her hair was cut short and her face, beneath a wool cap, was broad and mannish. She had no work and little money, and had come out here with scant idea of the arrangements usual in such places--a loggers'' hotel. She did not wish to announce her ignorance by asking the bartender or the cook, so her plan was simply to wait here on the hotel veranda until work should fall into her lap. In any case, the weather was uncommonly clear, with a slight breeze to carry the smoke away, which she considered the best sort of weather for waiting. About halfway through the long morning a redhead

Please Wait