Bitterroot Valley Exit, Pursued by a Bruised Ego

Angel, he hummed. Another name to remember. Sure to meet her soon, then. Fer the ladies, huh? He chuckled, brows raising for a moment. Smile on his face. Thought back to women from his past. His lady. Softened for a moment. A breath left his mouth, and he sealed his lips just as quickly; smile faltered, even if just for a brief second. But, Sega said that he would teach what he could, and at this, he nodded.
Sounds mighty fine to me, Chief, he said. One day, we can only hope.

Barrett looked down to the trail, now. He grew closer to Sega in physicality, stride matched, side-by-side; though he made sure, carefully, to let the Chief lead in every way, as if there was a silent order of hierarchy that the outlaw would rather die than disobey. Such a concept was, quite clearly, held close to his heart.
Drank in the scents. Distant smell of Elk. Hunger did not power him now, but instead, the prospect of proving himself, and for some odd reason, it was this that sharpened his senses, his claws, his fangs. To show himself as worthy. To deserve something. Something good. An odd pain, shoved aside like an old coat.
Dirty, rugged, worn.

But maybe, instead of an old coat, he could brandish himself a new, clean pelt. Fit for his den. Perhaps his shoulders.
Perhaps a lady.