Danny

The remaining wagons were let down without incident and evening was approaching when Fitzsimmons finally roused himself. “Mary, darlin’, where’s me drink?” he called out. When she didn't respond he called out again. “Mary! Diabhal é, bean, áit a bhfuil tú?” (Damn it woman, where are you?) Ian stuck his head in the back of the wagon, “Fhág sí tú, tú drukne bacach!” (She left you, you druken oaf!) “What do you mean she left me?” “She left you and your wagon here, at the top of the hill and she’s below. She said it’s up to you to get the wagon down the hill.” “And how am I to do that by me self?” “You should have thought of that before you drank yourself senseless.” “Damn it man, what am I to do now?” “I don’t care,” Ian retorted. “You’re a disgrace to the Irish.” “You mean you won’t help me?” “No, I’ll help you. I’ll have someone else take your animals down the hill then we’ll see about getting your wagon down and once it’s down all your whiskey will be tossed out!” “You can’t be throwing good whiskey out on the ground!” Fitzsimmons cried. “He can and I’ll help him,” Tom said as he came over to the wagon. “Otto took the mules down a little while ago so all that’s left is the wagon and I say we start throwing the whiskey out now. It will lighten the load and make the descent easier.” Ian just nodded his head and Tom motioned over several men. “You can’t be doing that!” wailed Fitzsimmons as Ian dropped the tail on the wagon and climbed in and over him. Ian tipped over the first barrel and rolled it out of the wagon, watching it crack open as it hit the ground. “I can and will,” he said tipping over another barrel. Fitzsimmons began to flail his arms, landing harmless blows on Ian’s back, and crying out, “No, no, no.” Ian let the second barrel roll out the back of the wagon and Fitzsimmons cries increased in volume and his flailing arms moved faster but still had no impact on Ian. Three men pulled Fitzsimmons out of the wagon and his cries turned into wails. Tom stuffed a neckerchief into his mouth, bound him with rope and set him on the ground. “You’ll stay here until we clear the wagon and get it down the hill. Then I’ll let you go.” Fitzsimmons eyes were filled with tears but soon turned to anger as he watched the men start tossing all but one of the remaining barrels out of his wagon. Some men were collecting the wood from the barrels to use for the fires that night, knowing it would improve the flavor of any meat they cooked over it. The men prepared to lower the wagon and got in place. This was the last wagon and now the lightest and easiest to lower. They were all tired now and looking forward to heading down the hill themselves as they began to lower Fitzsimmons wagon. The only problem was no one looked to see if it had been properly maintained. Halfway down the hill the rear axle broke. The sudden jerking on the line caused two of the men to let go of the ropes and the wagon continued to roll, losing its rear wheels. It pulled the remaining men off their feet and they all let go of the rope. “Look out below!” one man yelled as the Fitzsimmons wagon bounced down the hill. Even with the back of the wagon dragging, the steep incline let the wagon roll quickly down the hill, now unhindered by ropes. Ian walked over to Fitzsimmons and cut the ropes binding the man. Fitzsimmons was quickly on his feet and started running after his wagon. Unfortunately he was still feeling the effects of drinking his own whiskey and tripped several times. Finally he fell and didn't get up but just lay there, face down and motionless.