LEATHER

Leather was a big man. Not Beck or the Mean Brothers' big, but a good six feet something and a couple of hundred pounds. He had no hands. In their place were wooden stumps set with knives: two blades on the right hand, one on the left. Bonner had amputated them with an axe. The blades belonged to Bonner. He had struck those terrible clean, swift blows intending to kill Leatherman —once a friend of the Outrider, now his greatest enemy.

A jagged, deep, three-pronged scar ran from his forehead, under the eyepatch and out the other side, continuing down his cheek like a river delta. The torn flesh had grown back a brilliant white in contrast to Leather's ruddy, heavy, bearded skin. An extremely savage blow had carved that scar in his face. It had been struck with a broken bottle which had popped the eye in the socket, and had ripped Leather's cheek to flapping ribbons of skin. Dara, Bonner's girl a long time back, had done it. She died.