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.