It's unlikely anyone might notice the door to the hall opening, amid the commotion; nor are they likely to pay much attention to the man ducking through, removing his hat as he enters. A fight like this, where both participants are lost in a red haze of fury, will keep going until they're dragged or shocked out of it. A bucket of cold water might do the trick, or a gun fired in the air, or – potentially – this:

A moment of caught silence before a third body joins the fray: shaggy, furred, and snarling. Diefenbaker lunges for the man on top, fangs sinking into his clothing, his growl rising and rising as Fraser pushes in, reaching for the man on his back. Both of them are bloodied, snarling at each other as viciously as the wolf now amidst them. "Diefenbaker!"

The order snapped out, the wolf lets go of the first man and positions himself between them, braced, fangs showing, as Fraser hauls the second man, dark-haired, his eyes alight with rage, blood streaming from his nose, back. "What's going on here? What happened?"

The man he's holding back shakes off his hand and wipes the blood off his face, and Fraser recognizes him: Thomas Jopson, the man he'd met the other day and another sailor from the Terror. He can't worry about that too much just now; he puts himself between Jopson and the other man, one hand spread in front of Jopson's chest to keep him back, the other held out toward the smaller man Kieran is defending. Between each set of men, Diefenbaker still stands, braced, teeth showing. "All right."

Fraser looks to Jopson, taking in the tension running through the man's shoulders, the pure hatred in his eyes. He keeps his own voice steady and calm. "Did something happen?"

You do not take the law into your own hands. With one stroke, the young man hits at a thing that's been worrying him since he arrived: without any idea of what, if any, jurisdiction they might be under, it's impossible to know what law to uphold or if someone could be considered to be breaking one. In many ways, they've all been taking the law into their own hands. Until now, this small community has largely been operating under the premises of an understood, if mostly unspoken, social contract, one that has mostly kept disagreements from escalating into physical violence.

Mostly. Until now.

He's a policeman who lacks jurisdiction; all he can do is try to soothe ruffled feathers, try to get to the bottom of the issue, and hopefully keep anyone from getting seriously hurt. Fraser listens to the smaller man's words, trying to piece it all together. "If you're going to complain about an accusation, I might avoid making one of your own, Mister Hickey. 'Slander' is nothing to sneeze at, when we all have to be able to rely on each other's word."

Though his voice is mild there's nothing movable beneath it. Not only is it a major accusation to make, it's inflammatory, making the smaller man look even more of a victim, potentially by design. He looks back at the still fuming Jopson.

"And how did you get involved, Mister Jopson? Did you see what happened?"

He can see, in his mind's eye, how Ray would approach this situation: with bluster, probably shaking both men down to determine the instigator. He's not sure if Ray's methods would work better here or not, but all he's got to rely on are his own instincts.

Hickey stabs a glare across the room and Fraser turns his head to see Goodsir standing there, looking horrified. This is all tangled up in everything that came before, in something that no one's saying aloud, and he can't see any clear way of untangling it at the present moment. Definitely not when the two men are stabbing barbed words at each other like this. "You know, Mister Hickey, I don't think continuing to stoke this argument is going to help matters. In fact, I would suggest you both take a breath, and step away. Mister Jopson, I recommend getting that nose looked at."