It's late October 2015 in the state of Wyoming.

The wind river mountains bask in radiant fall sunshine.

Sawtooth, granite peaks, serrate the sky, which is blue and vast and cloudless.

An alpine stream, fed by snow, thawed in the unseasonably warm weather,

meanders through wildflower speckled tundra.

Just below the tree line, in a dense thicket of dry brush and deadfall,

flies buzz around a heap of deliberately placed pine boughs.

A dead elk, shot by a hunter earlier today, lies hidden beneath the branches. Its silvery brown fur matted with blood, sharp antlers protruding from the autumn foliage.

Clearly, whoever shot this beast intends to come back for it, which begs the question,

where are they?

Six miles down the trail, 35-year-old Leif Vidin sits slumped in the saddle of his horse,

a harnessed rifle slung across his sagging torso.

Blood soaks the hard-wearing fabric of his trousers and drips over the leather lining of his boots.

Beneath his rough, blonde stubble, his skin is sickly pale.

Leif lifts his head. There are still many miles to go. He has to pick up the pace. He tugs weakly at

the reins of his horse, Dylan.

With the flick of his head, Dylan expels twin jets of steam from his flared nostrils.

Then he springs forwards, the muscles rippling in his glossy chestnut haunches.

Each impact of the horse's hooves on the hard ground

fires another bolt of pain through leaf's abdomen.

But he can't slow down.

If he does, he might never make it down this mountain alive.

...