There was nothing they could gain by staying, he knew, now that
Baumberger was out of it. Unless they got stubborn and wanted to
fight. In that case, he supposed he would eventually be planted
alongside his father. He wished he could keep the boys and old
Peaceful out of it, in case there was a fight, but he knew that
would be impossible. The boys, at least, had been itching for
something like this ever since the trouble started.
Good Indian had, not so long ago, spent hours in avoiding all
thought that he might prolong the ecstasy of mere feeling. Now
he had reversed the desire. He was thinking of this thing and of
that, simply that he might avoid feeling. If someone didn't kill
him within the next hour or so, he was going to feel
something--something that would hurt him more than he had been
hurt since his father died in that same house. But in the
meantime he need only think.
The shadow of the grove, with the long fingers of tho poplars to
point the way, climbed slowly up the bluff.
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