Chapter Two

                "Who the hell are you?" a voice demanded. It sounded as if it belonged to an old man. Finnegan glanced around the barrel of the gun and saw the man standing there in a white nightdress, his gray hair wild around his heavily wrinkled face and his yellowed eyes narrowed and fixed on Finnegan.

                "My name is Finnegan. I mean ya no harm. There seems to be a bit of a storm brewin' and I was hopin' ya might allow me to have a roof over my head before she hits."

                The old man studied him intently before glancing over Finnegan's shoulder and scanning the forest around them, "You alone?" he grunted.

                Finnegan nodded, "Just me and my horse Theo."

                Several more tense seconds ticked by as Finnegan wondered if perhaps he'd be eating some shotgun lead. Finally the gun lowered and Finnegan was able to draw a breath, albeit a shaky one.

                "Now that I'll need to change me britches—" he mumbled with a grimace. "—can I come in out of the approachin' storm?"

                As if on cue thunder rumbled in the distance. The old man grunted, his paper thin lips pursing. "Yeah, I reckon," he finally relented. "But if you try any bit of funny business I'll give you another hole to shit out of, you hear me?" A bushy gray brow quirked up as he finished his threat.

                Finnegan fought back laughter at the colorful description and the images it brought to mind, "Yes, sir. No funny business. Ya have my word as an Irishman on that."

                "Irishman," the old man snorted but didn't illustrate any further on what he thought of the people. "You can put your horse over under that lean-to so he stays dry."

                Finnegan whistled for Theo and the horse trotted over. He removed his saddlebag and kissed the beasts cheek, "He'll get under there on his own, won't ya boy?"

                "Kissing horses..." the man grumbled. There were a few other words mumbled under his breath that Finnegan couldn't make out enough to understand but he was fairly certain that he heard the word unnatural tossed in there. "You reckon you should tie him up at least? Lightning's been known to scare critters."

                "Not as much as it scares me," Finnegan mumbled and then he yelped when a flash of it lit the sky. "Can I come in now then?" Without waiting for the old man to move, Finnegan slid past him and into the tiny shack.

                And shack truly was the word for this place. The single candle was all that lit the ten foot by ten foot interior. Wind blew in threw the drafty walls and blew the feed sack curtain wildly. Finnegan walked to the only chair he saw, a rickety chair that did not appear strong enough to support the weight of a field mouse. With a shrug, Finnegan sat down, wincing at the sound of creaking wood and waiting to be sent crashing onto the dirt floor, which, thankfully, did not happen.

                "Never seen a grown man so scared to death of a little thing like lightning before," the man scoffed as he closed the door and then secured the shutters on the window. Rain began to fall, clanging loudly on the rusted tin roof.

                "Little thing?!" Finnegan demanded as he pulled his flask of whiskey from his pocket. "I'll have ya know that there ain't no such thing as a little bit o' lightnin'. I'll have ya know that there was once I time I was camped beneath a sycamore tree and a storm like this one here comin' began. A blast a lightning came down from the heavens and blew that tree right in half!" Finnegan grunted as he put the flask to his lips. "I didn't shite properly for a month afterward."

                The old man's eyes widened as Finnegan took a drink and then he threw his head back and laughed hoarsely until he was gasping for air. Finnegan worried the man's lungs would give out but he continued to chuckle as he settled himself down on the edge of the bed and poked at the small fire in the stove.

                "You might just be alright, Irishman."

                "And what do I call you?" Finnegan asked.

                "Murphy," the man replied, holding out a bony, wrinkled, age-spotted hand.

               Finnegan quickly shook the offered hand and secured the cork in his flask,  "Pleasure meetin' ya, Murphy. Do ya play cards? We could pass a bit of time while we wait out this storm."

                "I ain't much for cards," Murphy admitted with a grumble.

                "Well, I'll try not to hold that against ya."

                "Do you play chess, Finnegan?" Murphy questioned.

                "Ahh chess. The thinking man's game. Aye I play a wee bit."

                Murphy suddenly seemed happy to have company as he set up a chess set on the tiny table in the corner. Finnegan sighed, then nearly jumped out of his skin when another flash of lightning lit the shack. He could think of better places to spend a stormy night than with an old man that appeared to be knocking on his headstone... then again he could certainly think of worse ways to spend a night as well.... Something Morgan was no doubt learning back in that jailhouse.

                Finnegan was hopeless at chess, (something Murphy seemed more than happy to tell him), but the game was good for passing the hours and soon the storm passed and exhaustion began to settle into Finnegan's bones.

                "You seem like a good man, Finnegan," Murphy stated as Finnegan laid out his bedroll on a tiny patch of open dirt floor beneath the window.

                "Do I now?" Finnegan asked, having never been told that before.

                "You seem the kind of man another man can trust with a secret."

                Finnegan shifted uncomfortably. "I'm good with secrets," he lied. Truthfully he couldn't keep a secret to save his life. He simply never had been able to.

                "I'm an old man," Murphy continued. Finnegan frowned as he sat down on his bed and took yet another sip from his flask. Was that the secret? If it was then it wasn't a very good one. "I probably do not have much longer left to live."  Again not much of a secret. Murphy wheezed a bit as he shuffled over to a shelf and pulled down a folded piece of leather, tied with strings.

                "What's that there, Murphy?" Finnegan questioned, his interest piquing.

                "A map," Murphy replied as he settled himself down in his chair. "A map to treasure."

                "A treasure map?" Finnegan asked with doubt. Now he was an open minded man but treasure maps were a bit much for even him to believe.

                "Look for yourself," Murphy grumbled, tossing it at him. "My whole life folks have laughed at me but it's a damn treasure map. It'll lead you to a lost shipment of gold."

                Finnegan's interest grew as took the bound leather and undid the ties. The flaps of folded leather fell open, revealing a folded piece of parchment. Finnegan's hands were shaking as he carefully unfolded the parchment. Could this truly be a treasure map? And was this man truly giving it to him?

                Finnegan looked at the drawings, lines, letters and symbols covering this so called map. "Murphy, ya wouldn't know how to read this here map would ya?"

                "I believe I've figured it out, Finnegan. It's taken me all these years but I think I've finally figured it out—now that I'm too old to chase after it."

                "Well now see here, Murphy. Alls ya gotta do is tell me how to read this map and I'll certainly bring ya back your fair share."

                Finnegan's body was all but humming with excitement. A treasure map! He sent up a prayer of thanks to the Lord for answering his prayers. It wasn't a sack full of money but it was the next best thing!

                Finnegan noticed that Murphy had suddenly grown quiet. He glanced up from the map and saw that the old man was slumped in the rickety old chair with his eyes closed.

                Had he fallen asleep? Finnegan laughed lightly. He had heard that the older a man got the more likely he was to simply nod off where he sat. Apparently the chess match had proven to be too much for the other man.

                Finnegan shoved himself to his feet and crossed the tiny shack. There was no way he was going to let Murphy fall asleep before he explained this map to Finnegan. Not now that Finnegan had caught the fever.

                He nudged Murphy's shoulder and then Finnegan's jaw dropped when Murphy simply fell sideways, tumbling out of the chair and onto the floor.

                "Uh... Murphy?" Finnegan whispered.  

                Shite! Finnegan placed a shaking hand beneath Murphy's nose and swallowed hard when he realized there was no breath washing over his fingers.

                "Well isn't this just fine and dandy, ya ol' bastard!" Finnegan grumbled before kicking the old man's leg. Then he frowned. "Sorry about the wee kick there, Murphy. Ya don't need to come back from the dead and kill me for it."

                Finnegan grabbed a blanket from the bed and covered Murphy's body. Finnegan might be scared of lightning but he was terrified of being in the same room as a dead body. He always imagined them rising back up from the dead and forcing him to join them....

                Finnegan shivered. He went back to his bed on the floor and moved the candle closer to study the map.

                Hours he sat there simply staring at the weathered parchment but no matter how long he looked, it simply didn't make any sense to him. Finnegan found himself growing frustrated. It was as if someone had just placed a chest of gold right there in front of him and then told him he could not touch it.

                Finnegan had to touch it. He had to have it!

                He scratched at his thick hair and chewed on his bottom lip. He needed someone to help him figure this map out now that Murphy had gone to the great beyond. Finnegan cast a nervous glance in the man's direction to ensure he wasn't yet rising back from the grave and then looked back down at the map.

                Who could he trust to help him? Who could he trust with the truth about this map? And did he know anyone smart enough to possibly be able to figure out this confusing puzzle?

                Only one name came to Finnegan's mind and when it did a smile curved his lips. He hadn't seen Cassandra in five long years—not since his mama had died and Cassandra's father had run him off for good.

                First thing in the morning Finnegan would bury old Murphy and then start on the long trip to Virginia and his best childhood friend, the one person he was certain he could trust and the one person he knew that was smart enough to figure out this map.

                Oh little Cass. He carefully folded the map and wrapped it safely in the leather bindings before sliding it into his pocket.

                He laid himself down without putting out the candle. He was not willing to be in the dark with a dead man. Drifting off to sleep, Finnegan thought about Cassandra. She'd been a freckle-faced fifteen year old girl the last time he'd seen her. She'd been tall for her age and full-figured. He'd thought her to be the most beautiful girl he'd ever laid his eyes on but as his papa had always said 'an Irishman never settles down'.

                Honestly he couldn't wait to see her again. And he wondered if she would remember that kiss they'd shared just before he'd ridden away five years before. He snorted as sleep claimed him. Of course she would remember. A lass never forgot a kiss from Finnegan Callahan.