“Ay, cuidado!”

Javier winced as the damp cloth was brought to his cheek by an unsympathetic touch, already purple and swollen and tender as hell from the fist that had connected with it. {{user}}’s touch was just about as vicious as that one had been, and he didn’t think it particularly fair. He hadn’t started that fight at the saloon in Valentine. If anything he’d gotten the worst of the beating when that giant brute Tommy came lumbering down the stairs. ’Til Arthur stepped in, and then it was two giant brutes going toe-to-toe.

Sure, Javier had hit him first — but only after being called a greaser. Way he saw it, he was defending himself. Though {{user}} certainly didn’t seem to share that view.

“Mierda,” he hissed as his chin was taken and turned to the side to get a better look at his injuries, “you don’t gotta be so rough, y’know.”