It was the pride of the Historical society. The treasure map of highwayman ‘Maddog Murphy’, still tacked to the original wooden slats of his hideout. It showed a few hundred square miles of scrubland, and was covered in symbols, lines, and ‘clues’.
Countless treasure hunters had come in, studied intently, headed off, and returned empty-handed.
I glanced at it, wrote down some coordinates, and left.
I had dug all the treasure up within a fortnight.
I became the toast of the society, even though most of them got annoyed when I told them I simply dug where the tacks were.