Bitterroot Valley is there even a way to tell them apart?

When he found him by the river, Ezra was already awake, the sound of fish bones cracking between his teeth breaking the stillness. The boy looked stronger than when Sega had first found him—less hollow, less lost. It stirred something like pride in the hunter’s chest.
He approached quietly, golden eyes flicking from the boy’s catch to the buried scraps in the loam. His voice came low, roughened by the cold air and the weight of habit.
You learn fast, Sega said, words shaped in his broken Common, but the meaning clear. River kind to you.
He stepped closer, lowering his head to drink from the shallows. When he straightened again, the look he gave Ezra was firm but not hard—an unspoken command to listen, to learn.
Today, Sega said, nodding toward the far stretch of the valley where elk tracks laced the frost, we hunt big. No fish. You watch. You follow.
A brief pause, a glint of something almost like humor behind the gold. You stumble, he added, I drag you home by tail.