Phoenix Maplewood Who the Hell is Leviticus Cornwall?

Barrett left the willow trees, their verdancy and the chipper young folk within them. He headed, what he presumed to be, east, letting his paws, earth-shaking in all their might, carry him forwards, forwards, and forwards still.
So as he moved, he made mental note of the place, and of his travels. Maple and birch tree. Berry underfoot. Leaves of warm hue. He had the faint memory of artistry—char against woodskin. A memory that felt so far. So long ago. And in this moment, he neglected it, refused to linger on the thought for too long, pushing further, further, into the forest. A place unknown, soon to be committed to his weary memory.
And hunger, now, grew in his belly. Sharpened his senses. Drank scents into his lungs, searching, patrolling, like the hunter, the outlaw that he was. He remembered that word, though he did not quite understand the meaning behind it.

So he prowled forwards, one paw after the other; hunting.

But was his prey to be hare, or wolf?