no. never. the blood stays on the blade, son.
no, jack. for a baptism.
i don't know you.
derry?
and you want to fight, mr. eastman?
fight for the natives. they have a proper war chest.
let's see your skills, and we'll talk of payment later.
stand with us then.
bill poole! on whose challenge are we assembled? a man in a leather duster steps forward. he is young, lean and fierce. and then there are his eyes. they do not match. one is real. the other is a huge, bulging pearl upon which has been engraved, instead of a pupil, a full-color portrait of the american eagle.
bene.
but this time can you bear to look on the glory when it comes, bill? can you see it clear with your single eye?
it wasn't god who touched your eye.
i don't expect a death blow from your hand, butcher. let's have at it.
say it out and quick, before spring gets here.
so?
prepare to receive the lord.
can't. can't cross the river.  with steel through my heart. amsterdam looks around. none of the rabbits makes a move. this is clearly something he is meant to do himself. amsterdam grabs the tortoise handle of the knife, pulls on it. vallon tries not to cry out. the knife does not move. amsterdam tries again. he can't budge the knife. vallon moans. nearly wild, amsterdam pulls with all his strength. vallon screams in agony. amsterdam is pulling so hard he raises his father's back four inches off the ground. still the knife will not move. vallon passes out from the pain. now, finally, someone steps forward: monk eastman. he leans over but amsterdam, berserk with grief, pushes him away, turns back to his father, and, with a last desperate pull, draws the knife from his father's heart. he throws it on the ground. monk picks it up, wipes the blade on his arm, closes the knife and hands it to amsterdam.
hon .
 honor me.  think of me .  don't never look away. vallon convulses and dies. amsterdam shakes him to revive him.