"When you meet Howard Hill you know darn well you've met him before, but you can't remember where or when."
"Let me solve your problem. If, like myself, you sometimes find yourself hanging on a bar rail and staring over the head of the bar-tender, behind those character-destroying bottles of Four Posies or Old Step-Mother, you'll spot Hill. There you will see a reproduction of a painting, the culturer contribution of some beer cartel like Somebody and Rusch, depicting CUSTER'S LAST STAND. That American aborigine, that Indian on the piebald pony is Hill. Yes, the guy giving out with the blood curdling war whoop, drawing a bead on the heroic general (if a bead can be drawn with a bow and arrow Hill is the one can do it) is our boy. This is no quaint flight of fancy. It has to be Hill. God knows, I've stared at both Hill and his weapon often enough, chilled to the marrow."
"When Hill goes after any living creature with his bow for whatever reason, whether for food, motion pictures or sport he has the same intensity, the same piecing black eyes, the same unmistakable snarl, leering with the triumph of the Paleface. He may be stalking only a rabbit, but it's still Hill."