Free The Cossacks by Leo Tolstoy

its torn edges, and the tilted, golden crescent of the moon shone reddish above the mountains. There was now a chill in the air. Nazarka woke, muttered a few words, and fell asleep again. Lukashka was bored, got up, and began stripping the sapling he had found earlier in the evening into a rod for cleaning his rifle. His head was filled with thoughts of the Chechens living in the mountains, and how their young fighters crossed the Terek, unafraid of the Cossacks; but they might be crossing at some other point. He leaned out from his hiding place and looked up and down the river, but saw nothing. He gazed at the opposite bank, which stood out weakly against the water in the timid light of the moon, and stopped thinking about the Chechens. He was now only waiting for it to be time to wake his comrades so they could allreturn to the village for the festival. He imagined Dunaika there, his “sweet soul,” as the Cossacks call their mistresses, and he was filled with anger. He saw the first signs of morning—a silvery mist whitening over the water, and young eagles nearby whistling shrilly and flapping their wings. Finally the first cockcrow came from the distant village, followed by a second, which was answered by others.
    “It’s time to wake them up,” Lukashka thought. He had finished stripping the rod, and his eyes were growing heavy. He turned to his comrades and tried to figure out which legs belonged to whom; but suddenly he thought he heard a splash from the opposite bank of the river. He again glanced at the brightening mountains on the horizon beneath the moon’s tilted sickle, at the outline of the opposite bank, at the river, and at the driftwood now clearly visible floating downstream. He felt as if it was he who was moving while the river with its driftwood was stationary—but this feeling was only momentary. He fixed his eyes again on the driftwood. A large, black log with a branch sticking out of it caught his attention. There was something strange about it. It was floating along in the middle of the river without swaying or rolling. It did not look as if it were being carried downstream by the current but more as if it were cutting across the river toward the shallows. Lukashka carefully leaned forward and watched its progress. The tree trunk floated toward a sandbank, stopped, and then began to shift strangely. Lukashka thought he saw a hand appear from behind the log.
    “I’m going to get that Chechen myself!” he muttered, reaching for his rifle. He set up his rifle rest with calm, quick movements, leaned the rifle on it, held it there silently, cocked the trigger, and holding his breath, his eyes darting up and down the river, took aim. “No, I’m not going to wake the others first,” he thought. His heart began beating so fast that he had to stop. He listened. The log suddenly jolted forward and once more began floating toward him. “I mustn’t miss!” he thought, and suddenly, in the weak light of the moon, he saw the head of a Chechen bob up in front of the log. He aimed directly at the head, it seemed quite near, right at the end of the rifle barrel. He peered over it.
    “Yes, it’s a Chechen all right!” he thought with a surge of joy and, rising to his knees, once more took aim and peered at his target, justvisible at the end of his long rifle. “In the name of the Father and the Son,” he said, in the Cossack way he had learnt in his earliest years, and pulled the trigger. For an instant a flash of lightning lit the reeds and the water. The sharp, piercing sound of the shot carried across the river and turned into a rumble somewhere far away. The log was no longer floating across the river but bobbing and rolling downstream.
    “Grab him!” Ergushov yelled, snatching for his rifle and scrambling up from behind their hideout.
    “Shut up!” Lukashka hissed through clenched teeth. “Chechens!”
    “Who did you shoot?” Nazarka asked.
    Lukashka did not answer but immediately