a post mortem of sorts....again
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Silver is out of his chair and across the room before he knows it. He has a grip on the barkeep's shirt before he knows it, and he's pulling him up, hauling him eye-level, only to head-butt him to the ground again. The barkeep's mouth is thrown open in a wail, but there's no sound, Silver thinks, no sound at all, save for the sea rushing in his head and the tremor in his hands as he stares at the other man on the ground, watches him roll over to his side with a groan.
Flint, Silver thinks, and nothing else. It pulses around the knife in his gut like a drum beat. Flint.
And then Flint is looking at him.