Burton tried to speak, to beg for mercy, but his throat had clamped shut, parched and brittle as ancient parchment left too long in the sun. His voice only clawed its way back in a ragged, desperate croak the instant Boone pressed the knife down against the flesh of his right leg, just above the knee, and the first thin, crimson line of blood welled up, hot and sticky, tracing a lazy rivulet down the pale skin. Boone used that old Bowie for everything—carving kindling, gutting game, scraping hides—and its edge had gone so dull from endless abuse that it resembled a rusted sawblade more than a blade. He had to lean in with his full, heavy weight, all two hundred pounds of muscle and grit, to force the tip through the tough outer layer of Burton's skin, the metal grinding audibly against the resistance like a dull file on bone.
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