Bitterroot Valley ∟∟ móki

Again, Barrett would follow after Sega, like a child after his father. Towards a valley they went, where the man could only assume the band made their home. Through pines, out to a clearing, where pelts were hung to dry. Barrett studied them carefully: their handiwork and their cleanliness. Something of them called to him. And so these, too, he would commit to memory. Learn this skill. Practice, soon.
Before him, now, Sega dropped a pelt. Thick, well-warming, he could tell by view alone. Barrett gave a nod. Picked it up carefully, as to ensure that it was not damaged, nor worn in this short trek. Led down a path, where the grass laid flat from pawstep against earth, toward den beneath root and stone. Two were empty. He would choose the smaller of the two, stepping towards it and laying the pelt well inside.
He would not sleep yet. Instead, he looked to Sega, and said: Thank'ya, again, polite, even through the gruff and the gravel that was his low-toned voice. Really. 'ppreciate it, for it wasn't everyday someone was willing to offer a full belly and a warm place to sleep so easily. And he felt, in his heart of hearts, that there must be some way to repay him. But he knew, from life and its' weathers, that he should not extend himself so easily. So, he would offer only half of himself:
You need anythin' done... ask. Hunter. Fighter. Don't let none'a my debts go unpaid, and he would give a final nod. Would not leave yet. But, his mouth was shut for the rest of the night. That much, he thought Sega would understand.