Swiftcurrent Creek Baby I'm not fooling

Cole dipped his head in a slow, respectful gesture. His golden eyes moved between each of the Swiftcurrent wolves—first to the man who'd approached, then to the silent healer, and lastly to the dark-eyed woman who lingered not far off.
I reckon you’re the ones who helped her, he said, voice low and steady, the way a river carves into stone. He glanced over his shoulder, back toward Winslet. She wouldn’t be standing here if not for you.
He shifted the weight of the bison hide from his shoulder, letting it fall to the earth in one fluid motion. We brought somethin’. Ain’t much, but it’s honest, he added, stepping aside to reveal the gifts: the cured strips of dried meat, the hide still warm with scent, and Winslet’s carefully bundled herbs and pelts.
He looked toward Etienne then, a beat longer, as if trying to read what might not be spoken. Figured it’s past time we gave thanks. And not just in words. He gestured with his muzzle toward the goods.
Then, quieter, as though the words weren’t meant for the wind: You helped her. You helped me.
He cleared his throat, looking to Arric once more. We’re from Bearclaw Valley. Name’s Cole. This is my wife, Winslet. We’d be obliged if you’d accept what we brought. And if you ever need the favor returned… you know where to find us.