Living in the wasteland is like death, every day people become sicker. Every day sadistic cruelty creeps into our lives. I am one of the last Native People left in their part of the world. Our immune systems don't cope well with the vices and viruses brought by the white man. You have the Jackal Clan, but they are not ethnically native. Just a group of misfits that spend their time looting and molesting travelers. What makes me different, every thing and nothing. I live alone, I had a wife but she was taken my the ghost clan 20 years ago. I have been in their stronghold 3 times, each time I was lucky to escape with my life. You think there would be a trinket, a skull or piece of clothing but there is no closure. I will never know what became of her. I sit on the high cliffs and pick off members of their clan that walk past the windows. They cover them now, but every day I catch one unlucky one walking to the outhouse, trying to peak over a fence to make a dash to their vehicle. An from the silent mountains, splat, head turned into moist airborn matter. I prey on them, I inspire fear and terror. I must move every few hours. They search for me, once an unlucky traveler was caught, thinking it was "the great spirit sniper" they burned him alive for all to see. They were having such fun, during their festivities I splinted the femur of one, blew out the eye socket of another, cut the head off the shoulders of another and in the most ironic luck hit the gas tank of one of their buggies, three more burned until they had flesh hanging from their bones like wet laundry. I thrive on their suffering, I will not harm another for sport, but any member of the ghost clan brings out a dark vendetta in my soul. I live, breathe and eat only to cause them harm. If i work a job as a guide, or help a lost traveler find water, all the proceeds i gather go to hiring mercenaries and bounty hunters to go against my enemies. I keep a precise count. I have 17 head shots this year, 37 wounds to legs and torso, 5 where arms were useless after and another 7 up close and personal. I like when I catch them out in the field near a fire. I have my pet shadow, a black and grey wolf howl. This makes them ravenous with blood lust, thinking there is meat to be had they split up. I like to shoot at the ball in the ankle, blow out the foot, some times I aim at the lower spine so they crawl, howling for help. When I move in for the sacred kill I make sure to tell them the story of my wife. They usually gnash their teeth, take credit for her death, brag about abuse she suffered. In those times I use the butt of my rifle to break the jaw, colapse the nose and teeth. I hope you will not think ill of natives, because the scalping and skinning was not an act the indians used until to retaliate against us soliders that would mutilate indian corpses. But when in my dark spirit of the hunt some times I let the folk lore work in my favor. This is not a life I chose, feeding the buzzards bandit flesh, but it is my calling. I have killed over 130 members of their clan, but they breed and take new victims into their clan so fast I can't tell how my work has affected their numbers. Even my mighty horse has claimed lives of 3 ghost clan members trampled under his heavy hooves. When I run out of bullets I am adept with arrows and mines as well. I studied the great revolutions of the past in books, I incorporated tactics of the viet cong and us marines. Some times I leave a fake camp to draw them out, other times I posion their water supply once I even took several of their children over to the settlements to be raised by good people, give the kids a chance at quality of life beyond bloodlust and cruelty. When you walk the wastes be cautious with your dress and manner. If you look even remotely like a member of the ghost clan there is nothing I can do to help you but give you a swift journey to the other world. Remember me, your elder Chief of the Cree Raining Tree.

Not bad, though you'd do well to break that wall of text up into smaller, more digestible paragraphs.