He mounted the steep circular stairs, sending a surprised mouse scurrying away with a squeak. The staircase brought him to a plank ceiling with a trapdoor, which he forced open. The rusty hinges made a loud creaking noise and he paused to listen. The tromping of the men continued downstairs, their laughter suggesting they had heard nothing.

The attic space was small and, surprisingly, still packed with furniture, boxes, armoires, broken mirrors, steamer trunks, an eight-sided poker table, and other bric-a-brac. As Benton pulled himself up and began to move around, a roost of pigeons, living in the belfry atop the dome, flew off with a great beating of wings. There were pieces here with at least some value; this area must have been missed by the movers. Unfortunately, all this stuff meant he could have a longer search. And with the creaky wooden floor, a search might make noise. He’d better wait for the men to leave.

He listened as the voices came up to the second floor. More tromping about and the creeping smell of cigarette smoke. They surely would not find the door.

But they did. He sat up, straining to hear. One of them was exclaiming loudly, and he could hear them heaving on the bookcase and the sliding sound as it pivoted.

His heart suddenly pounding, Benton looked around for a hiding place. There was a large armoire he could hide in—but no, it would likely be opened. He pulled open the lid of a trunk, but it was full of junk. He realized there was no good place to hide. He was trapped.

Now the voices were booming up the stairs. They had not started climbing, apparently egging each other on to see who was going to be first.

There were four of them and one of him. He spied a heavy chest next to the trapdoor. Yes. That’s it. He seized the corner of the chest and shouldered it across the door, making a loud scraping noise.

There was sudden silence from below.

It might not be heavy enough. He pushed another chest over, and piled several heavy pieces of furniture on top. The silence below told him the men could hear everything he was doing. When Benton had piled as much weight as he could on the trapdoor, he sat back and waited.

“Hey!” one of the men called up. “Who’s up there?”

Benton tried not to breathe.

“Who the hell is it?” the man called again. “Come down!”

Silence.

“We’re waiting for ya!”

He held his breath.

“Hey, asshole, if you don’t come right down, we’re going to come up and drag your ass out!”

He heard a muffled thump, then another, as they tried to push open the trapdoor. But with at least two hundred pounds of junk sitting on top, it wasn’t going to move. He listened, his apprehension turning to amusement as he heard the men trying to shoulder the door open. They resorted to more pounding. “Okay, pal, we’re calling the cops!”

You do that, thought Benton. It would take at least half an hour for the police to arrive, maybe more. He might as well use the time to complete his search.

With no more need for quiet, he began tearing open chests, rummaging through old clothes and blankets, pulling out ancient toys and 1940s-era comic books, crumbling board games and old schoolbooks. He pawed through a wormy set of National Geographics, old copies of Life and Stag and Saturday Evening Post and Boy’s Own magazines, along with bundles of newspapers going back almost to Gold Rush days. As he worked, the pounding and threats continued from below, and then the voices went back down the stairs. He saw, from the belfry window, the men coming out into the yard, one apparently trying to get reception for his cell phone.

Benton continued his search, moving rapidly but methodically from one corner of the small attic to the other. It was discouraging, just a lot of rotting junk without even a hint of what he was looking for. Maybe it wasn’t here after all.

And then, at the bottom of a seaman’s chest, under a pile of quilts, he found a metal box. Even before he opened it, he knew this must be it. The box was locked, but a rusted metal rod, slipped through the lock’s loop, leveraged it off. He opened the lid, hands trembling with anticipation. Within lay a bundle of letters tightly bound with string, and tucked next to it was an old journal covered in dark green canvas, much soiled. He slipped out the journal and, holding it with the utmost care, eased it open.

There, on the front page, written in a precise feminine hand, was a brief legend.

He could hardly breathe. This treasure, so sought after, a holy grail of pioneer American history, actually existed. As his limbs trembled with mingled surprise and jubilation, he realized that he hadn’t dared hope it might be true, or that he would be lucky enough to find it. Even as he searched, he’d never really believed it was there. And yet here he was, and he was holding it in his hands.

By pure force of will he overcame his impulse to read on. There would be time for that later, but now he had to get the hell out.

He put the diary back in the box and slipped it into his backpack. He went again to the window. Three of the workmen were still outside, and one, now standing on a broken plinth that had formerly held a statue, was talking vociferously into his phone. The jackass really was calling the cops.

Benton quickly moved the chests off the trapdoor and listened. Where was the fourth? Waiting for him? But he heard nothing and finally yanked up the trapdoor. Nobody. The staircase was empty. He descended the stairs as quietly as possible toward the bookcase door, which was standing open. Creeping past it, he looked one way, then the other. The corridor was empty.

He headed down the hall. Suddenly, the fourth workman burst around a corner, ambushing him.

“There you are, you bastard!” the man roared, swinging his fist into his gut.

Benton, taken by surprise, was knocked to the floor, writhing in pain, trying to suck in air and get his breath back.

“He’s here!” the man yelled triumphantly. “I got him!”

He turned to face Benton, who was struggling to rise, and gave him a hard kick in the ribs. The violence—and the man’s unnecessary gleefulness in employing it—enraged Benton. His backpack had come off when he hit the floor and now he seized it, surging up and swinging it around, the iron box inside whacking the worker upside the head. The man staggered backward, then fell heavily to the floor.

“I’ll kill you!” the man screamed, scrabbling up to his feet. But Benton was already running like hell, backpack in hand. He flew down the stairs, ran toward the back of the mansion, vaulted through an open window, and headed for the overgrowth in the direction of Bear River. The workman was right behind, with the other three also pursuing, but the wiry Benton had spent much of his life hiking in the Sierras and they fell back. He tore through the trees, slid down the embankment, and splashed across the sandbars and channels of the river. At the main channel he held up the backpack and plunged into the water, swimming hard until his feet touched sand on the far side. He climbed out and turned to see the workmen standing on the opposite embankment, shouting threats.

He gave them the finger and then jogged into the woods and made a long loop, crossing the river again way upstream. From there he navigated back to his car with his cell phone GPS, relieved to find his gleaming convertible still hidden. He locked the backpack in the trunk and eased out onto Wild Irish Road. Eight miles down, turning onto the highway, he passed two cop cars, lights flashing, and couldn’t help but laugh out loud.