My jaw ached. So did my ribs.
“Ye almost had him.” Ian pushed another Guinness toward me. The lads set their pipes aside, and strummed their guitars. The pub was warm and noisy.
“I’ll crack his noggin next time.”
“Why do you two fight?”
“He’s a Campbell!”
“I’m a MacDonald.”
“Three-hundred years ago, Campbells killed my kin.”
“That’s the reason?”
Campbell sat nearby. Blood ran down his shirt and onto his kilt, I noticed with satisfaction. The bartender refilled my drink, bringing the same for Campbell.
“Aye,” said Campbell, hoisting his glass. “It’ll do until a better comes along.”
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