"Rye whiskey, rye whiskey I need ya so bad

                My mouth is so dry; I'm a thirsyt ol' lad

                Rye whiskey, rye whiskey you're better than the rest

              Just now ya sound better than a big set of breasts."

Finnegan tipped his empty flask and sent up a prayer to God to send him on a path to a brothel full of willing women and barrels of whiskey.

He'd run out of whiskey two days ago and Finnegan's blood hadn't been this pure since he'd begun drinking at the age of eleven. His mama had damn near had a fit but his pa had thought it was great fun and had encouraged it for his own twisted amusement.

That's what happened when your papa was an Irishman. Finnegan was glad for his Irish heritage even though the Brits that had settled this fine country called America well over a hundred years ago still looked down on him for it.  It was because he was Irish that he had such luck with the women. His accent wasn't as thick as his papa's but it still drove the womenfolk crazy.  He had Irish charm and with just a "Hello pretty lass" and a wink they were falling all over him.

                Though it was also his Irish heritage that had him wandering through the middle of nowhere without a drop of whiskey left in his flask. He had inherited more than just good charms from his papa. He had also inherited a strong bond with the whiskey and a love of a good bet.

                One too many bets on a buggy race that had gone south had led to Finnegan being forced to leave the race just as soon as the thundering hooves and bouncing wheels had crossed the finish line. And he'd been forced to leave in a hurry.

                Amsten Texas had been such a nice town—but now it was off limits to the likes of Finnegan; just the same as a long list of towns before it.

                The sun was beginning to set and Finnegan could see the faint flickering of a campfire not too far off in the distance. Maybe they'd have some whiskey to spare. Finnegan had a canteen of water but that was strictly to avoid death by dehydration and he wasn't quite far enough gone yet to find it appealing.

                He rode a bit closer and two old men came into view. Their heads snapped up and whipped around sharply when Finnegan's faithful appaloosa gelding, Theo, let out a snort.

                "Who the hell are you?" One of the men demanded in a gravely voice.

              Finnegan slid from the saddle and winced as blood flow returned to his backside. He shook out his legs and grinned, "My name's Finnegan, gentleman, and I was hoping ya might have a bit of space around your fire for me."

                "Sure don't," the first man ground out. "Get on out of here now and be on your way."

                "I mean ya both no harm," Finnegan assured them. "I simply need a place to rest a while and perhaps a bit of whiskey if ya have some."

                "We don't cater to no Irishman," the first man grumbled.

               The second studied Finnegan a moment, "I reckon we've got room to spare around our fire, LeRoy. Might as well let this man take it up."

              The men shared a look and then the first man sighed and waved him over, "Alright then. You can hitch your horse over there." He nodded toward a tree where two horses were already tied off and grazing. "We got some beans heated up and there's a bottle of whisky in that sack yonder."

                "Theo here won't wander off, will ya boy?" Finnegan cooed to the best as he patted its neck. He grabbed is saddlebags, draped them over his shoulder and made his way to the fire. He settled himself down in the dirt and reached for the sack the man had indicated, "My stomach thanks ya, gentleman."

                Finnegan pulled the cork from the bottle and laid the rim against his lips. As the warm liquid slid across his tongue and burned its way down his throat, Finnegan was convinced it was better than bedding an eager woman.

                "Irishman and their whiskey," the first man snorted. "You better not rob from us, young'un."

                Finnegan grinned, pulled off his hat and tossed it into the grass, "I don't rob from friends, gentleman."

                "Friends?"

                Finnegan raised the whiskey bottles in a salute. "The best of."

***

                Poke. Poke. Poke.

                Finnegan grunted in his sleep and squirmed away from the tapping on his leg. "Knock it off, Theo," he grumbled.

                "Hello, Finnegan."

                Finnegan came to full alertness at the sound of that voice. A voice he would recognize anywhere.  It had a slow drawl and a quiet confidence that sent shivers down Finnegan's spine. He kept his eyes closed as he responded, "Hello there, Dear Seamus. How are ya this fine morn?"

                "Not well at all, Finnegan. Though I reckon my day is suddenly looking a bit better now that I've caught up to you. I've been chasing you a while."

                     Finnegan raised a brow, keeping his eyes closed as he did so, "I give your life purpose then, Dear Seamus. I'll get up, ya close your eyes and count to 'round a hundred and I'll give your life some more."

                "Not this time, Finnegan."

                Seamus snapped his fingers and Finnegan opened his eyes to see Seamus crouched before him. Finnegan looked beyond Seamus to see that the camp was empty. The men, Finnegan's new whiskey bearing friends, were long gone and so was Theo. Then he noticed three of Seamus's men heading his way with a length of rope.

                "What do ya plan on doin' with that?" Finnagan asked calmly, while inside his heart thundered.  

                "Hanging you of course," Seamus replied with a shrug. "For your crimes."

                "If ya hang me then you'll never get your money."

                "You're never gonna give me my money either way," Seamus replied with a shrug as he grabbed Finnegan by the arm and jerked him to his feet.

                "I would say you're right, Seamus. Money doesn't seem to be growin' on any trees nearby."

                "No," Seamus agreed. "But you'll sure as hell hang from one."

                Finnegan knew he had to escape. Seamus was a crazy son of a bitch and would kill him despite the fact that they shared blood.

                "Can I have just a wee sip o' whiskey before ya send me to meet my maker?" he asked, hoping to buy some time.

                "No," Seamus replied quite simply and then a sharp pain came to the back of Finnegan's head and the world went black.

                A splash of water brought Finnegan back to consciousness and he jerked away, though he was careful to still his movements when he realized there was a rope around his neck connecting him to a thick tree limb and all that was keeping him from hanging to death was a rickety piece of wood balanced on top of five teetering stones beneath his feet.

                "I'd be careful how you move there, Finnegan,"  Seamus warned from atop a horse.

                 Finnegan realized they were alone. Seamus's men appeared to be gone, "Thanks for the warnin' there, Seamus. If ya don't mind could ya leave my whiskey? I'll need it when I get down."

                "You aren't getting down, Finnegan, and I've told you time and again I go by the name John now."

               Finnegan heard thunder rumble in the distance and raindrops began plopping down on the dried ground. The board Finnegan was balanced precariously on shifted below the toes of his boots and he nearly fell, cursing as he caught himself at the last moment.

                "Leave my whiskey just the same," he stated with a grin. "I'd be most obliged if ya would."

                Seamus shook his head and took the half empty bottle from the saddlebags of his horse. He leaned down and set the whiskey on the ground. "You're just like him, Finnegan. The drinking, the gambling, the women—"

                "Are ya havin' difficulties with the women then?"

                Seamus growled and swiped his hand over his face.  "I'm doing you a favor."

                "I think you and I may have different views on what a favor is, Dear Seamus."

                Seamus just shook his head and rode away. Finnegan couldn't blame him. He did owe the man more money than most folks made in a year. Of course Seamus was only one of many that Finnegan owed money to. Add to that list the men he had stolen from over the years and Finnegan was a man hated by many.

                The rain began to fall more steadily; the droplets pinging as they bounced off the whiskey bottle. Finnegan's hair was soon plastered to his head and the board and rocks below him became increasingly slick, threatening to give way and send him to his death at any moment. Of all the ways for a fighting Irishman to go out this was certainly one of the worst.