he other two to split the other third between them. I
was footing the bills, Jake was nearly broke. He had found the stuff,
and tried to hold out for half, me a quarter, the other two to split a
quarter. I said nothing doing.

"No, Jake, this first trip, it's got to be this way. If it's like you
say it is, there'll be more. What we can carry won't be all the value.
There'll be more to be gotten out of that ruin than the stuff you found.
You'll have the money to do it, after this, and it's your find. We'll be
out, after this one trip."

We sailed up the east coast of Korea from Fusan to the village of
Leshin. By native cart from there to the ancient half-ruined city of
Musan. That's close to the Manchurian border. There we hired eight
diminutive Korean ponies and four men to "go along" as Barto put it, for
they didn't want to go, and didn't appear like men of much use for
anything but guides. And Barto knew the way. But I didn't want to be
wandering around without any native interpreters, without contact of any
kind possible with the people we might encounter. None of them had been
more than a few miles into the wilderness. They were sad looking men
when we started northward. But Koreans manage to look pretty sad much of
the time. With their history, that's easy to understand.

Something about the burly, ugly Barto's behavior began to worry me. He
didn't know where he was going. He had told a lie, but just what the lie
was I couldn't figure out. I watched him covertly. Whenever we came to
the end of a march, instead of sighting his landmarks, making sure of
his bearings--he would go off by himself. Next day, he would know
exactly where he wanted to go--but sometimes the "way" would be across
an impassable gorge, a rapids, or straight into a cliff.

One night, the fourth day and well into the wilderness, we were moving
up a broad valley through a forest of larch. I sighted a deer, and
called a halt while I stalked it. I got it, and came back ahead of the
rest, who were cutting up the deer. I moved quietly in the woods--it's a
good habit. I came upon Barto, and he was oblivious of me. He had the
little golden girl in his hands, talking to it.

"Now, tell me the way, girl, tell me the way." Then he held the girl
loosely in his hand, as I watched, it gave me an eerie feeling to see
the little figure turn, its outstretched hand pointing northward like a
compass. Was Jake Barto a madman? Or _did_ the little figure act as a