The eagle was Mexican; it had swung its mile-wide circles many times to reach the point above the timber clump; it was migratory and alert with the hunger lust.
Calumet watched it with eyes that glowed bitterly and balefully.

Half an hour later, when he reached the river and the pony clattered down the rocky slope, plunged its head deeply into the stream and drank with eager, silent draughts, Calumet swung himself crossways in the saddle, fumbled for a moment at his slicker, and drew out a battered tin cup.
Leaning over, he filled the cup with water, tilted his head back and drank.

The blur in the white sky caught his gaze and held it.

His eyes mocked, his lips snarled.
"You damned greaser sneak!" he said.

"Followed me fifty miles!" A flash of race hatred glinted his eyes.