1635_ Cannon Law - Eric Flint [100]
Frank saw that his way across was clear, too, and began to make his way, grabbing one of the cudgels from behind the bar. It wasn't going to do much good—everyone left had either a knife or a broken bottle or a barstool. He felt a grab at his jacket—he turned, and Giovanna was there, her eyes angry, "Don't," she yelled, "let them finish."
"Benito's down," he yelled back, and she let him go. Please, he thought, don't let her try to follow me. None of the dozen or so pairs now left grappling and thumping and trying to stab each other looked like they were in any condition to be chivalrous. Although even they seemed to be quieting down as their wind gave out. Twice in quick succession someone got hit hard enough to go down, was administered a quick couple of kicks for good measure and his opponent cleared out.
Dino was already with Benito when Frank got over there. The poor kid was conscious, but groggy, with a nasty red mark, probably going to be a bruise, around his left eye and what looked like it was going to be a broken nose. "Got hit," he said, now just about audible over the last of the racket, revealing that he was cut inside the mouth as well. Sure enough, his lip was swelling.
"Doesn't look serious," Frank said, and indeed it didn't. Maybe a punch to the face. In a way, Benito was lucky. He wasn't a big guy, and getting knocked down quickly had probably saved him from worse.
"Momento," Dino murmured and stood up. Frank carried on checking Benito over, and winced slightly when he heard a solid, wooden thump and Dino growl "Enough. Now go."
Whoever it was didn't think it worth starting in on the guy who'd waded in on his side—Frank hoped like hell Dino was at least trying to bean the right guy in each fight, because there was another—and another again, someone had had a hard head—and Frank didn't like to think how it would be if they were just storing up trouble by cold-cocking people who might have helped if they hadn't been half-brained by Dino.
And then there were none.
"Last of 'em, Frank," Dino said, heading toward the door to see the last guy went out. He'd added two more forms to the ones on the floor, one out cold and the other one on his hands and knees and vomiting impressively. Head injury, Frank worried silently to himself and then, slightly sickened by his own callousness, as long as he dies off the premises, we're golden. Although it was more than likely just a great deal of drink catching up with the guy. Fabrizzio had finally gotten downstairs—he must've heard the ruckus—and was starting to check the bodies for life-signs.
"Good work, guys," Frank said, helping Benito to a chair. His eyes looked okay, as near as Frank could tell in the lamplight—oh,damn, the lamps—he checked around hurriedly but there didn't seem to be any broken lamps that were about to burn the place down. He'd noticed that the previous owner had hung the lamps and candles up near the ceiling, and now he saw why. When the customers wrecked the place, they were less likely to accidentally torch it as well. "Dino, get the door," he said, and then looked and saw Dino was ahead of him.
"Frank, you should see this," Dino said, standing with the door open only a crack and looking out in to the street.
Frank went over. A whole bunch of rowdy drunks had spilled in to the street after a really savage brawl and hit the cool night air full of wine and hormones. There weren't many nice possibilities that suggested themselves to him.
He looked out through the gap. "Oh, fuck," he said when he saw what was coming up the street.
"What I thought," said Dino, from over Frank's shoulder. "Anything happens, we lock the door real quick, you hear me Frank?"
"Right," Frank said. Dino'd