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

Sega’s ear twitched at the boy’s laughter, and for the briefest moment, the corner of his scarred muzzle curved in return. It was not often that humor lived long in the valley, but the sound of it—Ezra’s—was a thing he did not mind keeping.
He turned his gaze toward the far ridge, where frost still clung to the grass and the faint, deep prints of elk crossed the soil. Cold water make strong hunter, he said, voice rough but steady. You learn to take what land give.
Golden eyes flicked back to the red-streaked boy, sharp and assessing but not unkind. You have good eyes, Sega continued, pausing long enough to let the weight of his words carry. See before others see. That keep you alive.
He stepped past him then, shoulders rolling beneath his pale coat, he nodded toward the open valley. You follow close. You quiet. Wind is friend, not voice. A brief grunt followed, almost amused. If you stumble… I still drag you home. Maybe both tails, this time.
And with that, the older hunter moved out into the morning light, the scent of elk and snow curling around them like a promise.