Blake rested his hand on his service revolver, weighing the morality of gunning Boone down on the courthouse steps, when he heard the news. Boone didn’t have the cash. He possessed neither valuables sufficient to pawn nor property to offer a money lender. By the end of the day, during which he had performed some truly fantastic work, Mr. Bishop began questioning whether he would ever receive payment. Consequently, the other side of the judge’s punishment fell upon Boone. He would serve a month on a chain gang, performing hard labour for the city of Victoria. His wages would be offset against the debts owed to the Adelphi Saloon and Mr. Bishop.

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His first victim stood blind drunk, pissing on the side of the trading post. Boone simply strolled up behind him, placed the pistol barrel to his nape, and pulled the trigger.

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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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