"Shooting won't bring Lonesome back.

Besides"-- she turned toward Calumet and saw the cold grin on his face as his right hand dropped to his hip in silent preparation for Malcolm's menacing movement--"don't you see that he would shoot you as he shot Lonesome?
He just can't help being a brute!" She turned her back to Calumet and spoke in a low voice to her grandfather, smoothing his hair, patting his shoulders--calming him with all a woman's gentle artifices.

And Calumet stood watching her, marveling at her self-control, feeling again that queer, thrilling sensation of reluctant admiration.
He had forgotten Bob.

Betty had left the boy standing alone when she had gone over to Malcolm, and Bob had hobbled forward when Calumet had turned to follow the girl's movements, so that now he stood just behind Calumet.

The latter became aware of the boy's presence when the latter seized his left hand from behind, and he turned with a snarl, his six-shooter half drawn, to confront the boy, whose grip on the hand had not been loosened.