I had a knife ready and shoved it up under her chin.

Wintrow still held his knife low and ready; where had he learned that?

Would he have to go back to that den, now filled with ready knives and open eyes, to begin search for his companion?

He had his knife low and ready, the pistol in the other hand now.

He backed, keeping clear, his own knife ready and waiting.

A stranger poised over me, knife ready to strike again.

He looked down and saw the knife, ready to open an artery.

Is your knife ready, to cut the traces if a horse should fall?

He moved again, further along the ridge near to Renius, the second knife ready in his hand.

Mind and thoughts like a knife ready to cut.