Bitterroot Valley Exit, Pursued by a Bruised Ego

He chuckled at this; that he already hunted like one of them. He gave a rounded shrug of his shoulder blades, taking a step, two, three steps forwards.
Left, he confirmed with a nod of his head. He turned his head once more, looking to Sega, band-chief, and flicked his tail. A silent departure as he padded towards the westernmost side of the herd. The bull's bellows fell harshly upon his eardrums, and as the rising sun lit the group of elk, Barrett could see, if he gazed quite harshly, a smaller, thinner elk towards the center. It moved slowly, as if weighed down by something. Unable to hold its' own weight. There, came quiet murmur.
He approached the herd, now. Tail rose high above his flank. Scare 'em, he thought. For if they ran, the weakest would fall behind, tired, and would make the kill easy for both the wolves and the elk. She would not be in pain for long.
So, Barret would wait. Stood tall. Feet planted against the soil. Waiting for Segas' signal. And then, he would charge. Harass 'em a bit.