Bitterroot Valley ∟∟ móki

The outlaw followed after the band chief, step after step, falling in line with the larger ones' pawsteps, walking just behind. He kept his silence. Drank in the scent of elk that grew as they came closer. Hunger turned in his stomach, pooling saliva in his mouth. There laid a gratitude in his heart. A thankfulness for the benevolence of the one that led him. And yet, a reluctance. A sense of perseverance that could not quite decide whether this move was a smart one, or if it would be his doom.
But, here they were, a bull elk before them, certainly still fresh from the morning of. And Sega told him to eat. So he would. He bent his head down and tore at the flesh, careful to preserve the pelt of the creature, moving it aside with his nose. Something foreign called to the usefulness of the pelt. A concept that had yet to be overridden by his predatory nature as the beast he now seemed to be.
And the name of the beast was asked. So, it would be given.

Rising from the elk, he spoke. Callahan, was the name in which he shared. And it was not quite wrong. A recurring name for him. Half-truth. He spoke again. Callahan Ward, should'ya want it in full, he leaned back down to continue eating; paused.
How many of yer 'Great Sky' folks ya got livin' here? He asked.