in the Ural Mountains, 1898...

the man with the rifle is concealed by rocks and brush....the half-dozen Cossacks ride the trail below him, along with the Imperial officer on the fine strong horse.....he enters the cross-hairs of the scope. The crack of a rifle shot echos in the narrow canyon, the officer's horse whinnies and rears as it's rider drops to the ground, landing all akimbo, dead by the look of it.....the Cossacks jump off their mounts, grabbing their carbines, taking position behind rocks and trees, nervously scanning the cliffs above for some sign of the sniper. But there is only silence, and no movement they can see.....