Words were no longer needed, as Old Horse twisted the dagger, the sharp blade tearing through the blood on his friend's neck like a flowing stream that simply couldn't be stopped. He struggled, but Old Horse had his hands seized, rendering him utterly powerless.
He felt the life inside him rapidly draining away, the color draining from his face, as the wound in his neck created by the dagger—first leaking blood like a trickle—finally spurted out like a fountain.
The serrations on the back of the dagger ceaselessly agitated the wound, enlarging its range, and he struggled with all his might. But the ebbing life sapped his strength bit by bit, and no longer could he dislodge Old Horse, who stood firm behind him.
"Goodbye, my friend."
Uh... Ugh!
"You... why?" It was his last utterance; as the words slipped out, his body, propped up by Old Horse, gradually slumped.
