Bitterroot Valley ✢ With the holes in his sneakers

Sega’s ears turned toward the sound of the marmot’s whistle, though his gaze remained on the black wolf a moment longer. The man’s calm was steady—rooted, like the old trees that clung to the valley walls—and Sega found something in it that quieted the last of his guard.
He swallowed his mouthful, muzzle stained red, and lifted his head. You kind, he said, voice rough but carrying weight. Not many come here with peace. His words were halting, the rhythm shaped by effort rather than fluency, but there was a faint warmth beneath the gravel of his tone.
His golden eyes flicked to the marmot holes, then back to the stranger. They trust valley, he murmured. Animals. Wind. Me. A pause, breath fogging in the cold. Now, maybe, trust you too.
He stepped from the carcass, giving space as the other had done, his tail lifting once in quiet acknowledgment. You hunt good, Sega added, a faint smile breaking through the weathered line of his muzzle.