Full download ebook at ebookmass.

com

Savage Union: The Caraksay Brotherhood (Book

3) Ashe Barker

https://ebookmass.com/product/savage-union-the-
caraksay-brotherhood-book-3-ashe-barker/

Download more ebook from https://ebookmass.com

More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Savage Warrior (The Caraksay Brotherhood Book 5) Ashe

Barker

https://ebookmass.com/product/savage-warrior-the-caraksay-brotherhood-
book-5-ashe-barker/

ebookmass.com

Savage Reckoning (The Caraksay Brotherhood Book 6) Ashe

Barker

https://ebookmass.com/product/savage-reckoning-the-caraksay-
brotherhood-book-6-ashe-barker/

ebookmass.com

Savage Revenge (The Caraksay Brotherhood Book 8) Ashe

Barker

https://ebookmass.com/product/savage-revenge-the-caraksay-brotherhood-
book-8-ashe-barker/

ebookmass.com

Savage Lovers: The Caraksay Brotherhood. Book 4 Ashe

Barker

https://ebookmass.com/product/savage-lovers-the-caraksay-brotherhood-
book-4-ashe-barker/

ebookmass.com
Savage Prince (The Caraksay Brotherhood Book 2) Ashe
Barker

https://ebookmass.com/product/savage-prince-the-caraksay-brotherhood-
book-2-ashe-barker/

ebookmass.com

Savage Justice: The Caraksay Brotherhood, Book 7 Ashe

Barker

https://ebookmass.com/product/savage-justice-the-caraksay-brotherhood-
book-7-ashe-barker/

ebookmass.com

Savage King (The Caraksay Brotherhood Book 1) Ashe Barker

https://ebookmass.com/product/savage-king-the-caraksay-brotherhood-
book-1-ashe-barker/

ebookmass.com

The Savage Heir (The Lupu Chronicles Book 3) Monique

Moreau

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-savage-heir-the-lupu-chronicles-
book-3-monique-moreau/

ebookmass.com

Mafia Beauty (The Mancinelli Brotherhood Book 3) Sabine

Barclay & Celeste Barclay

https://ebookmass.com/product/mafia-beauty-the-mancinelli-brotherhood-
book-3-sabine-barclay-celeste-barclay/

ebookmass.com
 SAVAGE UNION
THE CARAKSAY BROTHERHOOD BOOK 3
ASHE BARKER
ASHE BARKER BOOKS
COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2022 by Ashe Barker

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Editing by www.studioenp.com
Cover Art by http://www.fiverr.com/designrans

Warning : This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers. If
such content upsets you, please do not purchase this book
 One night was never going to be enough. She will be mine, ‘til death do we part… one way or
another.
Making gorgeous, feisty Casey Savage my wife was already in my plans. Finding out she is carrying
my child, well, that only seals the deal as far as I am concerned.
And although our passion burns as hot and fierce as it did the night I first claimed her, she doesn’t
accept my proposal as easily as I’d hoped.
No matter. Whatever it takes, I will have Casey where she belongs—in my home and in my bed,
where I can touch and taste and tease her whenever I wish.
But in a split second, the future I am fighting so hard for is nearly lost. Now there is nothing on this
Earth that will keep me from wiping out the threat against my family.
Even as I hunt down those who tried to take my woman and child from me, I can’t help but wonder if
they are the true enemy…
Or just a distraction from a greater evil waiting in the shadows.
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue

Savage Prince (Book Two in the Caraksay Brotherhood Series)

Also by Ashe Barker
From the Author
About the Author
 Visit https://ebookmass.com
now to explore a rich
collection of eBooks and enjoy
exciting offers!
CHAPTER 1

R othwell Clinic, Inverness, Scotland

May 2020

Jed

“RIGHT , YOU’ RE GOOD TO GO .”

The nurse shoots me a bright smile, clearly meant to be taken as an invitation as much as medical
advice. Meaning, ‘We’re done, but if you feel like sticking around…’
I roll my sleeve down and check my watch. I’m in no particular hurry, and from what I can see
above the surgical mask covering her mouth and nose, she’s pretty enough, in an obvious sort of a
way. Maybe I could…
No. I have shit to do. I could just fit in a meeting with my accountant in Glasgow if I get a move
on, save me coming back over here next week.
“Best get off,” I reply. “Thanks for…”
For what? The hepatitis B shot? Always a wise precaution in my line of work. You never know
where people have been, and when they tend to bleed all over you, well, things can get messy in more
ways than I like to think about. Or for the invitation to enjoy the facilities here at the luxurious
Rothwell private clinic a little longer?
“… everything,” I finish, reaching for my jacket.
She shrugs and continues to tidy up the desk, dropping the used needle in the bright-yellow sharps
box and tossing the discarded packaging in the waste bin. If she’s disappointed, she hides it well.
My footsteps echo in the deserted corridor as I head for the exit. The Rothwell is always
somewhat on the exclusive side with none of the usual hustle and bustle of an NHS hospital. No
crowded waiting areas full of people coughing and sniffling. No harried staff who haven’t slept for
days and are wondering if there’ll be anything left at the food bank worth having by the time their shift
ends. No worried parents with squalling kids or elderly couples sitting in companionable silence. No
paramedics rushing about with bloodstained accident victims on trolleys.
No, this is the hallowed peace and quiet of private medicine. Better still, private medicine with
no questions asked. The Rothwell is a place where no one gets unduly curious about bullet wounds or
a stabbing. And it’s also a place where they still do the routine stuff such as Hep B injections despite
the global pandemic engulfing the rest of the medical world. And where an obliging nurse will still
offer a little extra TLC if needed, with scant regard for social distancing.
They aren’t even that fussy about mask-wearing, though there are the ubiquitous signs up
everywhere. I hate the things so I stuff mine in my pocket, take a left and trot down a flight of stairs,
not encountering anyone on the way. All of which makes the din suddenly coming from the self-
service café on the ground floor all the more incongruous.
I pause. There it is again. A metallic crash, followed by a string of expletives demonstrating a
colourful if not especially wholesome vocabulary. Curious, I scan the foyer area, then peer round the
half wall separating the main entrance from the café.
The vending machines are tucked away round the corner. There are three of them, dispensing such
goodies as prepacked sandwiches, hot and cold drinks, and snacks. For the more discerning clientele
with time to spare there is still a decent restaurant upstairs serving smoked salmon tartlets and
ridiculously overpriced cakes and pastries, but the vending machines cater for those in a rush.
Or perhaps they don’t if the fury of the woman currently laying into the machine purporting to
serve canned drinks is anything to go by.
Five feet four inches of enraged female lands another hard kick to the side of the machine. The
metal casing is actually dented by the blow but still refuses to give up its treasures.
“Bastard machine,” she hisses, at the same time delivering a vicious slap to the glass front.
“Where’s my fucking Coke?”
The entire cabinet shudders under the onslaught, but other than that, there is no response. No can
of cola tumbles from its bowels, nor does the gadget apparently see fit to return the money it allegedly
stole if her continued tirade is any indication.
The woman delivers an uppercut to the side of the machine, then turns her attention to a spot
somewhere near the top. Unfortunately for her, the machine is at least two feet taller than she is, so
she’s forced to leap into the air in her attempts to dislodge whatever is stuck.
“Great robbing lump of shite,” she snarls. “Useless pile of trash.” She punctuates her remarks
with more blows, none of which make the slightest difference to her predicament. It’s when she drags
a chair over towards the machine that I decided to intervene before she launches it through the glass
doors.
I clear my throat, and she spins around to face me.
“What are you doing there?” she demands to know.
“I was wondering if you might like me to hold your coat,” I reply.
“Do one,” is her considered response, and she returns to her assault on the defenceless machine.
I take a couple of paces forward, enough to be able to see the problem. The can of cola seems to
be wedged at the top of the dispensing tube, which is about a foot higher than she can reach in her
attempts to dislodge it.
“Maybe I could—”
She whirls around again. “Are you still here?” She shoves past me to grab the chair she dragged
over.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I advise. “The hospital will probably sue you for criminal damage, or GBH
to an innocent vending machine.”
“Get out of my way.” Undeterred by my advice, she pulls the chair in front of the drinks dispenser
and kneels on it.
“Ah, I see the plan now. Maybe I can help.” The trapped can is way out of reach for her but at eye
level for me. I jab the machine in just the right place with the heel of my hand, causing the errant can
to shudder and bounce, but it’s still wedged tight.
 “Hit it harder,” the woman says. “Or better still, let me…” She clambers up onto the chair.
“This calls for a little more finesse, I think.” I grab her round the waist and lift her down. “Sit
there.”
“Who the fuck do you—?”
“Sit. There.” I inject a healthy degree of menace into my tone, usually sufficient to quell any hint
of insubordination. This girl is not one of my soldiers, but she gets my drift anyway. Her expression is
sullen but she obeys and sinks onto the chair she had preciously pressed into service as a ladder.
I dig into the pocket of my jeans and produce a small penknife. It’s a handy bit of kit, I’ve had it
for years. The handle conceals a variety of implements, including a tiny screwdriver which I’ve found
especially useful for picking locks. It’s a skill I’ve cultivated since I was young, and I’m quite adept
at it, even if I do say so myself. It takes me less than a minute to unlock the front of the glass cabinet,
enabling us to help ourselves from the wares within.
“A Coke, was it?” I lift one out for her and hand it over.
She takes it, scowling. “And you think I might get arrested. Where did you learn that?”
I shrug and help myself to a can of lemonade. “Here and there. Do you want anything else, or shall
I lock it up again?”
“No. I’m good.” She pops the top of the can and takes a long drink. “I suppose I should be
grateful.”
“Up to you.” I take a seat opposite her and open my own can.
“Are you going to pay for that?” she demands.
I take a sip and grin at her. “I confess, I wasn’t going to.”
“Right. Fair enough.” She cocks her head. “You’re not from round here.”
‘Round here’ is the Scottish Highlands. I’m from Dublin, and my Irish accent is a dead giveaway.
“Nope. You?”
“Sort of. I live in the Hebrides. The Outer bit.”
“No wonder you were going for it with the machine. Poor bastard never had a chance. They breed
hardy souls out there, I daresay.”
She tips up her chin and affects a haughty pose. “We have central heating. And triple glazing.”
“Very wise.”
Now that she’s ceased her murderous assault on the cola machine, I can study her more closely.
Like me, she isn’t wearing the requisite mask so I can tell she’s pretty, in a quirky sort of a way. And
probably not one for following rules, either. Large blue eyes, made to look even larger behind her
oversized glasses. Her blonde hair is scraped back into a wild bun, and during her recent exertions,
curly tendrils have escaped to frame her face. Her mouth is mobile, and expressive, her nose straight.
The more I scrutinise her, the more I think that ‘pretty’ wouldn’t describe this woman. ‘Exquisite’
would be closer to the mark. ‘Alluring’, maybe.
She’s of less than average height, maybe five feet two or so, and very slender. Delicate hands grip
the cola can, and she lifts it to her mouth to take another drink. Her throat works to swallow the liquid
and I watch, mesmerised.
Her breasts are petite like the rest of her, that much is obvious beneath the loose-fitting T-shirt.
Small, but perfectly formed. The phrase pops into my head and seems to be made for her. I wouldn’t
mind betting that I could encircle her waist with my hands. I wonder what she’d do if I tried that…?
“What are you staring at?” She glares at me and swipes the back of her hand across her mouth.
“Did I spill some?”
I shake my head. “I was just thinking…”
 “What?”
“Fuck, you’re lovely.”
Her eyes widen. She gapes at me. “What did you say?”
“I said, you’re fucking gorgeous.”
“I am not!”
“From where I’m sitting…”
“Are you Irish always so… so…?”
“Honest?”
“I was going to say, quick off the mark. Pushy.”
“It was an observation,” I reply. “And an honest one. It doesn’t mean I want to jump your bones.”
“I see.” She pauses to take another drink. “Well, that’s a pity because I wouldn’t mind jumping
yours.”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised, though I like to think I hide it reasonably well. “And you say the
Irish are pushy.”
She flushes a deep crimson, and I get the distinct impression those words were not intended to
come out loud. “I’m sorry. I should never…” She leaps to her feet. “I should go. They’ll be
wondering where I am.”
“They?” I stand, too.
“My brothers. My sister in-law just had a baby. Upstairs.”
“I see.” I had wondered why she was here at the hospital. “You’re visiting, then?”
She nods. “It all got a bit… intense. I mean, I’m happy for them and everything, and he’s a lovely
baby, but…”
“You needed some air? A break? Coke?”
“All of the above. Not to mention the prospect of being propositioned by a handsome stranger.”
Handsome? I’ll take that.
“As I recall, you propositioned me.”
She reddens again. “I don’t know what came over me. I can only apologise…”
“Don’t apologise. Try this instead.” I close the distance between us in one stride and frame her
jaw with my hands. It does occur to me that this is a risk, the sort of thing seriously frowned on these
days with everyone so paranoid about catching covid, and I get all that. I really do. But I’m willing to
take a chance if she is. With that in mind I take my time lowering my face to hers, allowing her every
opportunity to draw back, or even slug me on the chin. She does neither, so when my lips brush across
hers, I’m fairly sure the caress is welcome.
Her lips part. Her tongue darts out to taste me. The tang of cola dances on my tongue. I slant my
head to gain better access and deepen the kiss.
Her hands are around my neck. She combs her fingers through my hair and reaches up on tiptoe. I
drop my hands to cup her bottom, then I lift her. She clambers up me willingly, wraps her legs around
my waist, and grinds her core against my abdomen.
“Jesus,” I moan, breaking the kiss just long enough to glance around in search of a more
accommodating spot.
And I see the perfect place. She’s still clinging to me when I carry her around the side of the row
of vending machines into the secluded corner, out of sight from the foyer or even the rest of the café.
Even better, there’s a ledge where they keep vending supplies.
I send the collection of plastic cups, lids, and little wooden stirring sticks to the floor with a
sweep of my hand and deposit her on the shelf. It’s the perfect height.
 I tip up her chin with my fingers. “You want this?”
“Yes.” And to emphasise the point, she grasps the hem of her T-shirt and drags the garment over
her head. She’s not wearing a bra.
Enough said.
I unfasten the button on her jeans and pull down the zip, then take her weight so she can wriggle
the denim past her hips. She kicks off her shoes, a pair of well-worn trainers, then the jeans.
Underwear, too. It’s all in a heap at my feet.
She looks up at me, her expression one of defiance, as though she’s challenging me to say
something. Anything.
“Fuck, you take my breath away.” It’s the best I can manage and seems to be enough.
Her lips curl in a smile. “Show me how much.”
My mouth finds hers again, and I cup her breasts in my hands. Her nipples are hard little pebbles,
pressing against my palms. I roll them between my fingers and thumbs.
She gasps, then moans into my mouth, writhing her body against mine. Her hands are at my jeans,
fighting with the button, sliding the zip down, then delving inside to free my cock. She wraps her
elegant little fingers around the shaft and pumps a couple of times, then swipes her thumb over the
crown.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” I grasp her knees and spread her wide, then drag my fingers through
her soaking-wet folds.
“Now,” she murmurs. “I need you to…”
“I know.” I line myself up at her entrance.
Her legs are clamped tight around my waist, and she uses them to lever herself forward, taking the
first inch of me inside her. I groan, and with a swift thrust do the rest. I’m buried to the hilt in her hot,
tight pussy, and I swear nothing in the history of Creation has ever felt more glorious.
I pull back halfway, then drive my cock deep again. Hard, fast, maybe a little bit rough, but she
seems to appreciate it. Crave it, even. Her fingernails are clawing at my shoulders, and her face is
mashed against my chest. She’s panting and squeezing her pussy around me as though she can’t get
enough friction.
I step up the pace, and she groans in appreciation.
“Yes,” she gasps. “Like that. Just like… oh! Aaagh…”
I slip my hand between us to find her clit and rub. It’s enough to send her soaring. She shakes in
my arms, shuddering under the onslaught of sensation as her climax washes through her. Her wails of
delight have barely subsided when my balls lurch and my semen erupts to fill her channel.
For long moments, neither of us moves. I’m the first to recover my wits and enough breath to get
by. I straighten and withdraw, but she still clings to me, her face buried in my chest.
“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning back in order to actually see her.
She manages a nod. “I should… I should get dressed…”
Sounds like a plan. I step back and help her down from the ledge, then I bend to pick up her
discarded clothes.
“Do you have a tissue or anything?” she asks.
“Don’t move.” I dump the pile of clothing on the shelf where we just fucked like bunnies and
leave her hidden in the alcove while I dart into the public loos a few paces away. I return a few
seconds later with a toilet roll.
She takes it, offers me a swift smile, and sets to cleaning herself up.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” she mutters, studiously refusing to meet my eyes now. “I mean, I
never usually…. I don’t know what got into me.”
I’m about to reply along the lines of ‘not what, who’ but think better of it. Now that the brief
interlude of unbridled lust is over, she seems embarrassed to the point of mortification, and I suppose
I can see why. We never even got as far as exchanging names before we were ripping clothes off.
Still, better late than never.
“It was good to meet you. I’m—”
“Casey? Casey, where are you?”
She leaps like a startled rabbit at the sound of the male voice echoing along the corridor.
“That’s my brother. I can’t… You need to hide.”
Do I? “You’d be Casey, then?”
“Yes.” She’s dragged her T-shirt over her head and is stepping back into her jeans. “Don’t let
them see you. Please…”
We’re both consenting adults. Apart from the possibility of a public indecency charge, I see no
reason to be unduly coy about what just happened. My companion clearly has other ideas. Casey
appears positively desperate. She jams her feet back into her trainers and shoves her socks in her
pocket. With one final pleading look in my direction, she steps out from behind the vending machines,
just as two men round the corner and enter the café area.
“I’m here,” she calls out, rushing towards them.
“Hey, we thought you got lost.” I watch from my hiding place while one of the men slings an arm
around her shoulders. “You okay, Case? You seem… odd. Did something happen?”
She shakes her head and is perhaps overvigorous in her denial. “No. Nothing. I’m fine. How’s
Cristina?”
“Hungry,” the other man replies. He tugs his phone from his pocket and hits one key. The call is
answered immediately. “We found her. We’ll head on up to the restaurant now. See you there.”
The trio disappears into the corridor. I remain where I am until their voices have died away, then
I get to work clearing up the debris. Discarded tissues, empty drinks cans, and an ominous-looking
dent in the side of the vending machine are the only evidence we were here. I dump the tissues and
cans in the trash, and even pick up the cups and lids I flung on the floor.
It gives me time to think, to assess the implications of what just happened.
I recognised one of the men. I’ve met Aaron Savage a couple of times over the years, done
business with him. Fuck, I quite like the guy. I have to assume that the formidable-looking individual
with him was his brother, Ethan Savage, head of one of the most powerful criminal networks in the
world, certainly in Europe.
And I just fucked their baby sister up against a wall in a hospital waiting room.
Holy shit.
CHAPTER 2

M anhattan, New York

October 2020

Jed

“I’ M IN NO HURRY. Maybe we could… make ourselves little more comfortable.”

I drag my attention from the spreadsheet on the screen. Maria Sorza is not a woman to be ignored,
no matter how much I might wish she’d get the message and leave me to get on with my work. Apart
from the fact that she’s breaking all the covid regulations by simply being here, these funds won’t
launder themselves. I make a mental note to fire the next secretary who lets Maria into my inner
sanctum uninvited.
“I’m comfortable enough,” I reply. “And I’m busy. What are you even doing here?”
Maria’s response is an elegant wave of her artfully manicured hand. Her nails are painted a
brilliant shade of crimson, offering a sharp contrast to the expensively tailored cream dress that looks
to have been painted on. She unfastens the first three delicate pearl buttons running down the front.
“Never too busy for me, of course, my darling. Or at least, not yet. And the rules don’t apply when
we’ll be married soon. Then you’ll have all the time in the world to ignore me.”
I sigh. “Maria, we’re not getting married…”
“Oh yes, we are. You know it, I know it. More to the point, my father knows it.”
Luigi Sorza, the father in question, is don of the Sorza Mafia who control New York and most of
Connecticut and New Jersey, too. Maria is his only child, and in her opinion that makes her his heir.
Unfortunately for her, the old man has other ideas. A traditionalist at heart, Luigi has no intention of
leaving his empire to be ruled by a woman. He has four perfectly hale and hearty nephews to choose
from and has made it abundantly clear that one of them will take over when he dies. Eduardo is
favourite, the eldest and without doubt the most ambitious.
Maria’s not taking that lying down. She’s hatched a scheme whereby she makes an advantageous
marriage to another crime boss, allies herself, and, by extension, the Sorzas to an equally powerful
family, and her father will welcome a new son-in-law to inherit his crown.
Simple.
And it might even work, if she can find a willing crime boss to go along with her scheme. Sadly
for her, that won’t be me.
 Visit https://ebookmass.com
now to explore a rich
collection of eBooks and enjoy
exciting offers!
 To be fair, I don’t really blame Maria. She’s amply capable of running a Mafia, more so than any
of the cousins whose only qualification as far as I can see is the possession of a penis. Maria is
astute, ruthless, dedicated, and driven. Her father might be a dinosaur, but Maria makes a credible
case, and the Sorza soldiers would probably have accepted a female leader if he’d endorsed her from
the start. It’s a pity she’s been forced to resort to using her feminine wiles to gain the status and
authority that should be hers by right, but there it is. We work with what we have, and Maria has
beauty and charm in abundance. Add that she’s hard as nails, utterly determined and relentless, and
you have a winning formula.
But it’s not winning with me. I admire Maria in an objective sense, and no male with a pulse
could find her unattractive. If she didn’t come with all the Sorza baggage I might even have been
interested, at least for a while.
But the truth is, I don’t have the slightest desire to extend my own empire. I run the Irish Mob, so I
have wealth and power in abundance, not to mention enough responsibility and hassle to keep me
busy twenty-four-seven. I certainly don’t want the added grief of succeeding old Luigi Sorza. All
those disappointed cousins to subdue. Men to win over, men with divided and confused loyalties, and
a business network that doesn’t exactly suit my own preferences or business model. The Sorzas deal
in drugs and guns like the rest of us, but they also traffic people, and I have no stomach for that.
Neither do I relish the prospect of relocating permanently to the US and I can be pretty sure that
would be a condition of any deal. I love New York and enjoy my visits here to nurture my own
financial interests in gambling and clubs. The night-time economy in the Big Apple is second to none.
It suits me fine and is lucrative as fuck.
It’s a pity that transatlantic travel has become so tricky recently. It’s not the money — I can run to
the hire of a private plane, and even the exorbitant fees for sneaking into a little-used airfield won’t
break the bank as long as these restrictions don’t continue too long. It’s all the hassle of keeping under
the covid-police radar that gets to me. I think I might need to buy a yacht. Just a small one. I should be
able to pick up what I need for a few million and sell it again later.
I need to get back and forth, pandemic or not. I’m Irish at heart, Dublin born and bred. Ireland is
my home. My roots are there, it’s my heartland and my stronghold. It’s the place I always go back to,
and that will never change.
Maria has unbuttoned her dress as far as the waist. Her apricot-coloured silk camisole shimmers
in the waning sunlight, and she flashes me a smile that would light up the Empire State Building two
blocks from where we face each other. I’m not exactly dispassionate as I watch her settle herself in
one of the leather armchairs opposite my desk and lift one stiletto-clad foot. I’m a male, after all. And
not quite dead yet. She toes off her shoe and loosens the crocodile-skin belt at her waist.
The show is beyond amazing, but it has to stop. It’s one thing fucking Maria Sorza just for fun, and
I’ve done that enough times, but now she has an agenda. Since she embarked on this quest of hers, she
has expectations. I need to avoid misunderstandings.
“It isn’t happening, Maria.”
“I think it is, darling.” The second shoe drops to the carpet.
I shake my head. “Don’t make me have to call men in here to escort you out.” I wouldn’t do that,
we’re friends, after all. But shit, this has gone on too long and it’s getting old. She won’t take ‘no’ for
an answer.
She pouts prettily. “It’s not as though I expect you to be faithful or anything so boring as that. Our
marriage will be a business arrangement, that’s all.” She stands, and the belt falls away. She’s moving
on to the rest of the buttons.
 “For fuck’s sake…” I hit the intercom button. “Gemma, I’m going out. Have a car waiting for me
downstairs.”
“Of course, Mr O’Neill.”
My secretary might be a poor gatekeeper, but she’s generally efficient. A car and driver will be
outside in a couple of minutes. “Ms Sorza will be leaving soon, too. Perhaps you could arrange
transport for her, as well.”
“Certainly, sir. Where will she be going?”
“Anywhere she likes.” I end the call and close my laptop. I’ll get no more done today, that much is
obvious.
I get to my feet and reach for the jacket I slung over the back of my chair. “Bye, Maria. Don’t take
too long about getting yourself decent. Oh, and in case you were thinking you might be able to
contrive a compromising situation… my CCTV is state of the art.” I gesture to the camera in the
corner of the ceiling. “Say ‘cheese’.”
Her shriek of frustration follows me down the carpeted corridor.

“REPORTS ?” I snap, my gaze sweeping the four men seated around the table with me.
Since I couldn’t get on with any work in my office, this is the next best thing. It never hurts to drop
in unannounced on my clubs. I can get to know first-hand what’s going on in my empire, as well as
keep my people on their toes.
I listen to the various accounts of profit margins, staffing issues, permits and licences, and find
nothing much to take issue with. My team are hand-picked and good at what they do. The meeting is
soon concluded, and the managers file out.
One man remains. Cal Paterson is my second-in-command, both here and back in Ireland. He’s a
cousin, of sorts, but I don’t know the exact relationship. My mother would have been able to describe
it in detail, but she died a few years ago, so I muddle through just knowing that he’s family and the
man I trust most in the world.
“Not got anything to do?” I ask, one eyebrow raised.
He relaxes into his chair and props one foot over the other. “Not especially. You?”
“Fucking plenty,” I mutter.
“Ah. So, why are you prowling about down here among the common folk instead of sorting out the
shit you need to deal with?”
I narrow my eyes. “It’s called walking the job.”
“It’s called micro-managing and it’s what you pay me for. What’s going on, boss?”
His gaze never wavers. It’s one of the qualities I most value in Cal. He never sugar-coats it with
me. He tells me straight what he’s thinking. And he knows me better than anyone else, even myself
sometimes. I consider tossing out some throwaway remark but decide not to bother. He’d see right
through me anyway.
“I got turfed out of my office. Maria’s there. Or, she was.”
He shrugs. “Could be worse. She’s certainly easy on the eye and good company.”
“She wants to get married.”
“So, what else is new?” Maria’s plans for claiming her inheritance are well-known.
I groan and let my forehead drop to rest on the table. “She won’t let up. I’ve told her it’s not
happening, but it’s like talking to the wall. Fuck, she even tried to seduce me over my own desk.”
 “She can seduce me anytime she likes…”
“I’ll mention that to her next time I see her.”
“Seriously, Jed, why not? You could do worse. Old Luigi would welcome the match. You could
extend your power base, take over the north-eastern territories here as well as back in Ireland. It’s not
as though you’d actually have to run things anyway. Maria plans on doing that herself.”
He’s right, and I already thought through all of that. I can’t say I’m exactly excited about just being
a pawn in her strategy.
Cal isn’t done yet, extolling the merits of Maria’s little scheme. “And, you’d have a beautiful
trophy wife to sweeten the pill even more. If you don’t have her, you can be sure the Russians will be
sniffing about. Or the Poles.”
“Maria won’t look twice at Leonid Koslov. He’s sixty if he’s a day and just as fossilised in his
thinking as her father. He’d never let his wife flounce about New York running her own Mafia. As for
Aleksander Nowak, he recently got engaged to some girl from Warsaw. I gather it was arranged years
ago.”
“Fair enough.” Cal can see the writing on the wall as clearly as I can. “And Maria won’t be
settling for a younger son from any of the families, so I guess that just leaves you, my friend.”
I’ve been racking my brain for a solution, but I’ve only come up with one idea. “I need to get back
to Ireland. If I’m not around, she’ll soon find someone else.”
“We just agreed that there is no one else qualified. And Ireland’s out of the question, at least until
the airports reopen.”
He’s right. The Covid pandemic has grounded pretty much all scheduled international flights. I
suppose I could hire a private plane again, or charter a yacht, but I’d need a crew as well. Still, it’s
probably worth the effort and expense to put some distance between myself and Maria Sorza, at least
until she seizes upon another more willing victim.
But what if she doesn’t? We already established that suitable candidates are thin on the ground,
and pandemic aside, it suits me to be able to travel freely between Europe and the US without
needing to avoid power-hungry women. I need to find a way to put myself off limits.
Cal hasn’t finished delving into my personal life. “Is it just Maria you object to, or marriage
generally?”
I furrow my brow. “I’ve nothing against marriage per se, I just…”
“What?” Cal presses me.
“I don’t know…” I give the matter some thought. “Maria’s approach is so clinical. Business-like.
I mean, I guess there’s chemistry at some level, we’re good in bed together. But I’m really just a
means to an end.”
Cal grins. “You old romantic. You want hearts and flowers and undying love.”
Do I? And if I do, what’s so wrong with that?
My parents loathed the sight of each other, and it blighted their lives for a quarter of a century.
They were both from important families. Their marriage was an alliance forged for strategic gain and
consolidation of power, and it worked on that level. If you could ignore the fact that they couldn’t
bear to live within fifty miles of each other, it was a brilliant match, a total success.
I can’t help but think that Maria would be happy with such an arrangement, if it handed her her
Mafia. Fuck, she even said as much with her remark about not expecting fidelity. My whole being
recoils at the prospect of living like that.
I want something more meaningful. I want a wife I actually like. Someone I can trust and look
forward to coming home to. Love would be nice, but loyalty and companionship are essential. I want
a woman who is intelligent, compassionate, good company. Someone I can respect.
“Like I said, hearts and flowers. So, where will we find this goddess, then?”
I scowl at Cal, realising too late that I spoke out loud. “Forget it.” I need to change the subject fast
before I weep all over him. Even my most loyal lieutenant won’t stand for that. ‘Fancy a poker game
tonight?”
He grins. “Sure. Your place?”
“I’ll invite George and Marco over.” They are two more of my underbosses, based here in New
York. Strictly speaking, it’s against the rules to socialise in my home, but who gives a fuck? Extortion,
murder and armed robbery are against the rules as well, but I never let that stop me before. And, this
is poker. “Bring some bourbon.”
“Will do. About ten?”

I’ M NEARLY fivegrand down but sitting on two pairs. Cal has already folded, and Marco is wavering.
I eye George across the green felt table. “I’ll raise you a hundred.”
“Two,” he replies, tossing four fifty-dollar bills on the table beside his cards.
He appears confident, but my hunch is that he’s bluffing. He’s a wily old fox, is George. I weigh
up my options. There are plenty of hands to beat two pairs. Maybe I should fold…
I’m spared the need to make a decision when my phone rings. I check the screen. It’s an unknown
number but from the United Kingdom. It’s close to midnight here, so about five in the morning there.
I could ignore the call, but I don’t want to. If someone is keen enough to speak to me in the middle
of the night their time, I want to know why.
“Excuse me,” I mutter to the other men at the table and hit ‘reply’. Then, “Who the fuck is this?”
The voice on the other end is assured and authoritative, British, with a hint of a Scottish burr.
“Ethan Savage. I need a word, and it won’t wait.”
I take a breath, recalling the last and only time I saw Ethan Savage. I’d just fucked his younger
sister. Casey, her name was. Delightful girl. I shake that memory from my head. “Do you know what
time it is?”
“Am I keeping you up?” he drawls
“Not exactly.” I cast an apologetic look towards my companions. “But it’s not especially
convenient either. Is there something I can help you with? Preferably something quick.”
“Yes, but you need to be on your own for this conversation.”
Holy fuck. He rings me up in the middle of the night, then starts ordering me around. Ethan Savage
may call the shots on his own turf, but not on mine. I’m on the point of telling him to go fuck himself,
but better sense prevails. I don’t know Ethan, but I’ve done business with his younger brother, Aaron,
from time to time. The Savages are all right. They pay their debts and keep their promises. I don’t
want to alienate them if I can help it.
“Okay. Give me a moment.” I gesture to my companions to leave, with the exception of Cal. He
remains seated and silent as I resume my conversation with Ethan Savage. “This had better be worth
it. You interrupted a serious game of poker, and I had a decent hand.”
“You bought some merchandise tonight. It belongs to us.”
“Merchandise?” This I didn’t expect. “Can you be more specific?”
“Guns. Half a dozen semi-automatic rifles.”
How the fuck does he know that? I only concluded the deal a few hours ago.
 “Jed?” Ethan is growing impatient. He wants an answer.
“I think you’ve been misinformed.”
“I haven’t—”
“And more to the point, my business has fuck all to do with you.”
“Our guns,” Ethan repeats. “I need—”
I decide that this conversation is over. “Goodnight.”
I end the call, then look to Cal for his reaction. He raises his brows in an expression that says,
‘Well, fuck…’
“Were those weapons stolen?” I demand.
“Probably, but we had no idea they were once Savage’s.”
“Tough. Whoever owned them before, they belong to me now.”
Cal’s brow furrows, and he scratches his chin. “There was a robbery at a warehouse of his a few
months back. He was pissed off about it. Lost two men in the raid. I seem to recall there were some
guns stolen…”
I nod. I remember the incident. There was a lot of talk at the time as both the Savage brothers
raked through all their contacts searching for any clues as to who had their property. “Yes, but that
was four crates, wasn’t it? We only bought half a dozen rifles.”
“So, the consignment has been broken up,” Cal reasons. “Easier to shift.”
“Probably.” I pour myself another bourbon. “And I guess I just pissed him off all over again.” So
much for not alienating the Savages.
“You could always call him back…”
I consider that briefly but dismiss it. Savage was out of order chasing me over this, and I’m not
having him throwing his weight around with me. “Fuck, no. Let’s get George and Marco back in here.
I’ve a decent hand for once…”
The four of us have only just settled back at the table when my phone rings again and Aaron’s
number pops up on my screen.
They’re obviously trying a more conciliatory approach this time, since Aaron and I are old
friends. Sort of.
I sigh. “Gentlemen, will you excuse me again?”
I wait until the room clears, then accept the call. “Aaron? Do you lot really have nothing better to
do at fuck knows what time in a morning over there?”
“I’m sorry, my friend, but no, we don’t.” At least he has the grace to apologise for disturbing me.
“We have a problem, and you might be able to help.”
I get straight to the point. “I have nothing of yours.”
“I get that. We don’t want the guns back. Well, we do, but they’re yours now, bought and paid for.”
Exactly.
He continues. “What we need is information about who you bought them from.”
I exchange a puzzled glance with Cal. “Aaron, how do you even know…? Oh, I get it. The
delightful Casey.” I was somewhat intrigued by my previous encounter with the younger sister, so I
did a bit of background checking of my own. It seems she’s a computer whiz kid or something, a bit of
a genius, by all accounts, who makes herself very useful to her brothers’ business interests.
Aaron ploughs on. “Who was the seller, Jed?”
“How does she do that stuff?” I press him, ignoring his question.
“She has her ways.”
“She hacked into something, right?”
 “Yes, I guess so.”
Well, fuck. That’s quite a talent. And useful. I wouldn’t mind rekindling my acquaintance with the
lovely Ms Savage. “You should introduce us some time.”
“She’s not hot on socialising.”
“Pity. Is she there? I could say hello.”
“She—”
He goes silent suddenly. I can imagine the scene. She’s there all right and is refusing to talk to me.
Which must mean she knows who I am. We weren’t properly introduced before. We met by chance in
a waiting room at a private clinic in Scotland, and one thing led to another. We ended up fucking
behind a vending machine. Not my finest hour, perhaps, but it remains a fond memory. Not knowing
her name didn’t seem important at the time, to either of us, but she’s obviously shit-hot at putting
things together and has worked it out since. The only reason I was aware of her identity was because
her brothers came looking for her and I recognised Aaron. Neither of them saw me, and as far as I
know, they still have no idea what happened between me and their sister.
Just as well, probably, but I must confess that this is getting more and more interesting.
There’s a muttered conversation on the other end, then Aaron comes back on the line. “Er, no.
She… she had to leave. I’ll tell her you were asking after her.”
“Do that,” I reply
Aaron is back to the business in hand. “The seller, Jed?”
“Aaron, you know I can’t…”
He knows as well as I do that I’m not going to share the details of my business arrangements. Why
the fuck is he even asking?
His tone drops to something more conciliatory. He’s trying to negotiate with me. “Jed, our issue is
that we have a leak. Someone on the inside here is supplying intelligence to our enemies. We need to
expose the security breach and plug it.”
Now, this is bad news. We all value loyalty, it’s the glue that keeps our organisations together. We
rely on it, on the integrity of our men, our associates. A traitor is a traitor, in anyone’s book, but are
the Savages’ problems really my own to worry about?
Actually, yes. Because if our situations were reversed and I asked him for help, I’d expect him to
give it. I have to reciprocate. It’s about honour, and self-preservation.
“Okay,” I reply, eventually. “I have a name for you. One name, then I’m done. We don’t speak of
this again.”
“Agreed.”
“Psycho.”
“Psycho? As in the movie?”
Is he taking the piss?
“Are you intending to be a muppet all your life?” I’m going to give him what he wants, but just
this once. He’d better be listening because I won’t be repeating any of this. “As in Sykes. That’s his
last name, don’t know the first, but he always goes by Psycho. Deals in just about anything, usually
operates out of Manchester but he’s been spending a bit of time in the US recently. I guess he got
stranded when they closed down international travel.”
“Why was he over there to start with?”
What am I? Psycho’s social secretary? “How the fuck would I know? Maybe he likes the
climate. It beats bloody Manchester, for sure.”
Aaron clearly realises he’ll get nothing more from me. “Thanks, Jed. I owe you.”
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Le Bar de la
Fourche
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Le Bar de la Fourche

Author: Auguste Gilbert de Voisins

Release date: December 17, 2020 [eBook #64065]

Language: French

Credits: Laurent Vogel and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from
images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LE BAR DE LA

FOURCHE ***
GILBERT DE VOISINS

Le Bar
de la Fourche
 LES ÉDITIONS G. CRÈS ET Cie
PARIS — 21, Rue Hautefeuille — PARIS

LES ÉDITIONS G. CRÈS & CIE

DU MÊME AUTEUR

Les Moments perdus de John Shag, roman, un vol. in-16. 3 Fr.

L'Esprit impur, roman, un vol. in-16. 6 Fr.
Le Démon Secret, roman, un vol. in-16. 6 Fr.
Pour l'Amour du Laurier, roman, un vol. in-16. 6 Fr.
L'Enfant qui prit peur, roman, un vol. in-16. 6 Fr.
Fantasques, petits poèmes de propos divers, un vol. in-8o (tirage limité). 22 Fr.

Tous droits de traduction, de reproduction et d'adaptation réservés pour tous pays.

GILBERT DE VOISINS

Le Bar
de
la Fourche
 PARIS
LES ÉDITIONS G. CRÈS & Cie
21, RUE HAUTEFEUILLE, 21

MCMXXI

A CHARLES BARGONE,
lieutenant de vaisseau

Mon cher ami,

Voici un livre dont tu accepteras la dédicace en souvenir de nos

longues causeries. Tu m'as emmené si souvent de la Martinique à
Sumatra et de Juan Fernandes aux Kouriles, que ton nom s'est
inscrit tout seul à la première page de ce récit d'actions violentes
commises en un pays lointain.

V. G.
Le Bar de la Fourche
 I.

L'averse venait de fuir. Sur l'horizon, un arc-en-ciel dessinait sa

fabuleuse fusée.
Mon père m'appela :
« Si tu faisais attention à ton travail, grand imbécile! au lieu de
regarder les nuages! »
Je me trouvais chez nous, au fond de l'enclos des poneys.
C'était l'époque où l'on poussait vers l'ouest le chemin de fer du
Nord entre Skykomish et Tocoma, dans l'extrême Far-West, au-delà
de l'Idaho.
« Hé!… Viens par ici! »
Depuis seize ans que maman avait succombé en me mettant au
monde, l'humeur de mon père était restée constante : je veux dire
acariâtre, orageuse ou, pour le moins, bizarre.
« Arrive!… et plus vite que ça! »
Ce jour-là, mon père se fâchait de peu. J'avais simplement oublié
d'attacher le licol de Cruchette et Cruchette s'était échappée. Bien
que l'on eût ramené la bête à l'écurie, tout aussitôt et sans accident,
mon père m'injuriait.
« Regarde-moi dans les yeux, canaille! Regarde-moi! »
Je m'étais approché de lui, tenant par le bridon Loupard, un petit
cheval bai que je menais chez le maréchal-ferrant.
 Je regardai mon père.
« Baisse les yeux, insolent! »
En baissant les yeux, je haussai les épaules.
« Quoi… comment!… tu… »
Et il fit sa mauvaise action…
C'est bien à cause d'elle que je ne le pleurai pas, trois ans plus
tard, quand j'appris sa mort.

Georges Saruex, mon père, était un homme instruit et, par

certains points, un gentilhomme. Protestant du Jura, il avait traversé
la moitié du monde pour faire fortune, et n'était arrivé à se
composer qu'une aisance médiocre. Sans doute savait-il trop de
choses. Si j'étais resté avec lui, au lieu de me promener sur la vaste
terre, je serais peut-être plus savant, mais beaucoup moins
renseigné. De plus, je n'aurais pas le sou. Toutefois, soyons juste :
mon père m'apprit à regarder, à raisonner et à souffrir. La nature se
chargea du reste en me fournissant de bons muscles.
Et puis, que voulez-vous! la maison était intolérable! Prières du
matin, prières du soir, discours, exhortations, cantiques chantés tout
le long des dimanches. Il y en avait trop!… sans compter mille
invectives contre les autres religions, invectives qui se terminaient
par des explosions de fureur.
Le grand ennemi du vieux, c'était le Pape. Je ne sais ce que le
Pape lui avait fait, toujours est-il que mon père ne laissait pas
s'achever une journée sans le prendre violemment à partie, dans les
termes les plus crus.
Sans doute, afin de lui être désagréable, il me donna le nom
d'Olivier! le nom de Cromwell! Quel beau nom : Olivier Saruex! Quel
beau nom de protestant!
Ah! mon père connaissait bien le Ciel! Il devinait les desseins de
Dieu, il prévoyait ses désirs… et malheur à nous si les prévisions
étaient inexactes!
 Vous concevez?… Une telle vie manquait de charme! Le vieux
traitait les hommes de la ferme comme des chiens, son fils plus mal
encore. Il avait beau nous parler de Dieu tant que durait le jour, il
n'arrivait pas à nous la faire aimer, cette puissance invisible,
cruellement ennemie du Pape, et qui, pour seul confident, avait pris
un protestant jurassien, émigré dans le Far-West.

Parce que je haussais les épaules, mon père fit sa mauvaise

action : il me cracha au visage.
A seize ans, j'avais le sang chaud. Ça ne pouvait s'arranger.
Botter les fesses aux petits garçons, leur tirer les oreilles, très bien,
mais cracher à la figure d'un homme de seize ans!… oh! non! non!
impossible! Je pris mon lasso, pendu à la selle de Loupard, et j'en
appliquai un cinglon sur le dos du vieux, un beau cinglon qui le fit
tourner au pâle, de rouge qu'il était.
Le reste se passa vite. Le vieux courut à la maison, en rapporta
la Bible, une bible couverte de notes qui avait appartenu à la mère
de maman, et, sur cette bible, jura le grand serment qu'il ne me
reverrait de sa vie ou bien me casserait la figure.
Ces histoires, c'est rarement utile. — Je n'avais pas l'intention de
rester. — Je partis.
Il disait vrai, tout de même, le vieux! S'il ne m'a pas cassé la
figure, du moins ne m'a-t-il pas revu. Et, maintenant, il est mort, et,
moi j'écris un livre ; mais ce matin-là, je m'en fus prendre une
couverture et marchai vers la gare, où j'avais des amis. La gare était
à huit heures de chez nous. J'arrivai comme tombait le soir. Le train
venait d'entrer et allait passer la nuit. Oh! comme je m'en souviens
bien, après tant d'années, de cette nuit si vite close et qui
rétrécissait le paysage! Pas de lune, peu d'étoiles… On voyait à peine
son chemin.
Cependant, la veine me toucha. L'homme qui devait nettoyer la
machine était ivre. Alors, comme je me trouvais là, j'aidai à faire son
travail et, en guise de salaire, priai le mécanicien de me transporter,
le lendemain, jusqu'aux chantiers de construction.
Ce fut ma première étape.
 II.

Des hangars, des cabanes, des buvettes, des amoncellements de

rails, des wagons qui servaient de magasins, un peuple d'ouvriers
venus d'ici, de là et d'ailleurs. Congrégation singulière : une majorité
de malandrins, quelques braves gens, beaucoup de nègres, pas mal
d'imbéciles et de brutes. Ah! s'ils avaient voulu, s'ils avaient pu
raconter leurs aventures… quels étonnants récits!
Nous étions à quatre-vingt-cinq milles, environ, de Spokane-Falls
et à trois cents pas de la Columbia, grande rivière bleue, princesse
de tout le paysage. En attendant de faire fortune, j'aidais, depuis un
mois, à construire cette sacrée voie ferrée. De temps en temps, nous
allions, sur les bords de la rivière, tuer des saumons avec une
bouteille à demi remplie de chaux vive, mais, comme c'est défendu,
on leur abîmait le coin de la gueule ou on leur détachait les ouïes,
pour faire croire, au marché, qu'ils avaient été pris par des moyens
légaux : filet ou hameçon.
On m'avait embauché dès le premier jour. J'inspire confiance
parce que je regarde les gens bien en face ; mais je dois à la vérité
de dire que le travail était dur pour un garçon de seize ans.
On employait trois mille ouvriers au chemin de fer. Le pays
n'étant pas très plat, nous avancions lentement. Il fallait d'abord
remplir les trous, c'était l'affaire de la première équipe ; puis la
seconde équipe venait approprier l'ouvrage et rendre le terrain plan ;
la troisième équipe posait les rails ; la quatrième… mais cela vous
est égal, puisque j'étais dans la seconde.
Ici, une parenthèse, car il convient, je pense, que je décrive un
peu cet Olivier Saruex dont je parle.
Olivier Saruex…
Eh bien, figurez-vous un jeune homme très mince, très sec, assez
vigoureux. De la force nerveuse, rien d'autre, mais qui me rendait
résistant, quoique j'eusse l'air presque chétif. J'étais de petite taille
et fort agile. Des cheveux noirs, des sourcils noirs et broussailleux,
des yeux bleu foncé, qui paraissaient d'encre vers le soir ; une
bouche mobile, la mâchoire très dessinée, de belles dents (mon
orgueil) ; le teint hâlé, du sang sous la peau ; pas un poil aux
joues ; des mains maigres, des bras maigres, de petits muscles
durs ; une forte pince dès que je tenais un cheval sous moi. Quant à
mon apparence, je ne sais pas, c'est difficile à dire, mais il me
semble que je devais avoir l'air assez décidé et, parfois, un peu
rêveur… Rêveur, oui… et je parlais d'une voix basse et douce.
Me voyez-vous?
Or, il est peut-être bon pour un rentier de compter ses revenus,
ou pour un acrobate de marcher sur les mains, la tête en bas,
puisque c'est là leur destinée, mais pourquoi un gars de seize ans
vivrait-il l'échine courbée, mettrait-il de la terre là où il en manque,
et inversement, quand son âge l'autorise à courir dans les bois?…
D'ailleurs inutile de récriminer… lorsque j'y pense, cette époque de
ma vie me paraît lointaine, à tel point qu'elle n'a plus pour moi qu'un
intérêt dramatique, celui, à peu près, que l'on trouve au cinquième
acte d'une pièce, le lendemain du spectacle.
Pourtant je me souviens, comme si c'était hier, de l'abominable
fatigue qui m'accablait à la fin de chaque jour. Quand je tombais sur
mon lit, j'étais fait tout entier d'une seule douleur, et je n'avais qu'à
penser à une partie de mon corps pour en souffrir aussitôt.
Un soir que j'enrageais plus encore que de coutume, je me
décidai à changer de métier, et voici l'idée que j'eus.
 De cette idée, je suis encore fier : d'abord, parce qu'elle avait des
chances de réussir et, qu'en somme, elle réussit (au bénéfice
d'autrui, je l'avoue), puis, parce qu'elle était fille d'une ambition
pratique, non d'une rêverie d'idéologue.
Il manquait beaucoup de choses dans notre camp ; mais une,
tout particulièrement, nous faisait défaut.
Vivrait-on dans un désert ou sur le sommet d'une montagne, il
est agréable de savoir si le reste du monde est toujours à sa place.
Or, on pouvait, à la rigueur, faire partir des lettres, en même temps
que le poisson de la rivière ou par l'entremise des ouvriers de
passage qui allaient des mines vers les villes, mais le diable était de
recevoir des nouvelles du dehors. Les immigrants n'avaient que des
journaux vieux de trois semaines, et, quand les bateaux revenaient
par la Columbia, ils auraient aussi bien pu nous rapporter, tant ils
faisaient d'escales, des gazettes du temps d'Abraham!
Certain samedi soir, un voyageur, monté, me donna, en
reconnaissance de quelque petit service, des journaux qui ne
dataient que du début de la semaine. Je parvins à les vendre un
dollar pièce. Un dollar! Cinq francs! Pensez donc! Cela me fit
réfléchir, et, bientôt, l'idée germa.
Je vivrais sur la curiosité publique. En me serrant le ventre, en
supprimant un verre de whisky sur deux, en ne touchant jamais une
carte, j'arriverais à faire assez d'économies pour louer un cheval.
Une fois le cheval loué, j'irais à Skykomish prendre les journaux (ce
serait trois jours et demi de voyage), et, de retour, je les vendrais à
bénéfice. Dans six mois, j'aurais les poches pleines!
Sans tarder, j'entrepris la réalisation de mon projet. Je ne fis
qu'un saut jusqu'à la buvette, puis quand le nègre qui servait
s'approcha, je haussai les épaules d'un air supérieur et sortis avec
dignité en disant :
« Au fait, je ne prendrai pas mon whisky aujourd'hui! »
J'avais affronté la tentation ; je l'avais vaincue… c'était quatre
cents de gagnés…
 Mais voilà! nos rêves n'ont jamais prévu l'accident!… A l'instant
où je franchissais le seuil de la buvette, une carriole venait au grand
trot. J'étais si absorbé, que je ne sus me garer à temps. Je tombai.
La roue me passa sur le bras, et mon bras cassa net…
 III.

J'ose à peine l'avouer, mais, très certainement, je dus m'évanouir,

car, en ouvrant les yeux, je me trouvai couché dans une petite
chambre que je ne connaissais pas. Elle était pleine de soleil ; un
oiseau chantait au dehors. Je me souviens aussi, à la façon vague
dont on se souvient des rêves, d'un faible bruit de rire que j'entendis
tout près de moi.
Qu'était-il donc arrivé? J'essayai de me retourner dans mon lit.
Une vive douleur m'arrêta. Ah! oui!… mon bras cassé!… Aussitôt, je
me rappelai mes beaux espoirs : le cheval, les journaux!… Misère!
On riait de nouveau. On parlait. Je revins tout à fait à moi.
« Allons! il n'y a pas de mal! mais peut-on être aussi douillet!
Pour un bras cassé, rester trois heures évanoui! »
Et j'aperçus, pour la première fois, penché sur mon lit, le visage
de Vincent van Horst.
Voyez-vous! on a beau vivre un assez grand nombre de jours et
passer par plus d'une aventure, il est des événements, des gestes,
des images, qui habitent la mémoire pour jamais. — Le premier
aspect de van Horst fut de ceux-là. — Quand je vis cette belle face
tannée par le soleil, le front large, coupé droit d'une tempe à l'autre
par la ligne des cheveux blonds et plats, les yeux sévères, d'un bleu
de faïence, le nez courbe, et puis cette bouche mince, cruelle, portée
par des mâchoires de brute, cette bouche étonnante, presque sans
lèvres (mais le peu qu'on en voyait était d'un rouge si cru que l'on
eût dit des lèvres de blessure), ah! je sentis que cet homme était un
homme fort et que je pouvais me fier à lui.
Je regardai van Horst qui me souriait, debout, près de mon lit. Je
le regardai bien. Il en valait la peine… Et, peu à peu, je me rendis
mieux compte du désastre, qu'était pour moi cet accident. Il me
venait une sorte de paresse d'âme très singulière, dont il fallait que
quelqu'un me tirât.
A seize ans, un bras cassé, ce n'est rien : un rêve en pièces, c'est
autre chose.
Or, ce soutien qui me manquait (que d'autres trouvent en Dieu…
mais on ne pense pas toujours à s'adresser si haut), van Horst me le
proposa, sans que j'eusse à le lui demander. Voilà pourquoi on ne
m'entendra jamais reprocher ses crimes à cet homme. Je n'ai pas le
regard oblique et navré d'un pasteur ou l'onction froide d'un
moraliste. D'abord, ces choses ne me regardent pas et puis, il me
semble abject de médire du fauteur de votre bien, sous le prétexte
qu'il fut le fauteur du mal d'autrui. Il pourra régler son affaire, tout
seul, dans le temps que je réglerai la mienne, quand sonneront les
dernières trompettes.
Cela bien entendu, je poursuis.

C'était van Horst qui se trouvait dans la carriole, c'était lui qui
m'avait renversé. Il me fit transporter dans une chambre de
l'auberge, et, lorsque je m'éveillai, les premiers soins étaient déjà
donnés à mon bras.
« Allons! change donc cette figure malheureuse! Oui, tu as le
bras cassé. Ça se raccommode. Nous l'arrangerons tout de suite.
Comment te sens-tu? Tu travaillais aux chantiers? Quel est ton nom?
Ne t'inquiète pas! je te paierai tes journées perdues, et un peu plus
pour la douleur. Nous fixerons le prix. Quoi! tu fais la tête? Appelle-
moi bougre de maladroit et qu'on n'en parle plus. Ces choses-là, ça
doit se régler vite et entre hommes. Je resterai quelques jours pour
te soigner. Maintenant… attention!… »
Il abaissa sur moi deux énormes mains solides, pesantes,
durcies, épouvantables, des mains qui semblaient de gros outils en
chair.
« Crie, si ça te fait mal!… Crie fort!… Encore un peu!… Crie donc,
imbécile! »
Oh! la vilaine impression : deux os qu'on remet, lorsque ces deux
os vous appartiennent!
« Voilà! c'est fini! Tu vaux quelque chose! J'ai vu des hommes se
tenir moins bien!… Bois ça et reste tranquille. Tu as un peu de
fièvre. »
Il m'avait bandé le bras comme un chirurgien. Un instant, il me
regarda du fond de ses yeux bleus, gravement, puis il éclata de rire
et s'en fut, me laissant seul, dans la petite chambre de bois clair, à
considérer les mouches.
 IV.

Je ne le vis plus de la journée. De temps en temps, des gens que

je ne connaissais pas venaient prendre de mes nouvelles. Je dormis
mal, mais je dormis.
Le lendemain, van Horst reparut, arrangea mon bandage et s'en
alla, après m'avoir dit :
— Je m'appelle Vincent van Horst… Si tu as besoin de quelque
chose, tu crieras. Si ton bras te fait mal, tu diras au nègre d'aller me
chercher… Je m'appelle Vincent van Horst… Tu as encore de la
fièvre. Ne bois pas de whisky… Et toi, quel est ton nom?
— Olivier Saruex.
— Olivier Saruex… C'est bien… Adieu!
La porte se ferma. J'avais tout le loisir de rêver. Je rêvai donc.
Mais, ce soir-là et le lendemain, à mesure que se traînait
l'interminable journée, j'en vins à regretter les départs subits de van
Horst. — Les heures ne laissaient pas d'être grises pour moi qui ne
vivais bien qu'en plein air, et l'on se fatigue de regarder par la
fenêtre, surtout quand on ne peut voir qu'un enclos étroit où
quelques poules et une famille de lapins prennent leurs ébats autour
de trois tonneaux vides, dans l'ombre d'un arbre fleuri de fleurs
blanches.
Les camarades qui venaient me rendre visite, ne restaient pas
longtemps ; puis… je n'avais pas grand'chose à leur dire :
 — Comment vas-tu?
— Ça va mieux.
— Quand penses-tu que ce sera fini?
— Bientôt.
— Tu sais. Charlie est arrivé saoul, ce matin.
— Ah! raconte-moi.
— Eh bien, voilà! il est arrivé saoul.
… C'était peu, et la servante de l'auberge, qui m'apportait à
manger, semblait tout à fait imbécile. — Personne, en outre, ne
pouvait me renseigner sur van Horst… Il venait du Nord… Un
bougre! Ah! pour sûr!… On ne savait rien d'autre.
La visite de van Horst était le seul événement de ma journée. Je
l'attendais avec une impatience d'enfant. Jamais je n'avais gardé le
lit, jamais! Ce repos forcé me tendait les nerfs, Je ne savais plus
songer qu'à une chose : la faillite de mon beau projet. Je n'avais
plus qu'un désir : informer van Horst de ce malheur. Pourquoi ne pas
dire à cet homme toute ma peine? Il compatirait peut-être. Pourquoi
ne pas lui demander un conseil?
Si peu craintif que je fusse à l'ordinaire, je n'eus pourtant pas le
courage, tant que je gardai le lit, de retenir van Horst. Je m'y
décidai, le premier jour de ma convalescence.
La veille, mon visiteur m'avait dit :
« Tu pourras te lever demain. »
Il me trouva debout.
— Oh! oh! déjà! Comment as-tu mis ta veste?
— Le nègre de la buvette m'a aidé.
— C'est bon, hein? la première fois qu'on bouge le bras?
— Pas trop!
Alors il s'assit pour bourrer une pipe, et moi, je compris qu'il
fallait profiter de l'occasion. Je regardai van Horst qui regardait sa
pipe, et, tout à coup, hâtives, précipitées, se bousculant, les paroles
sortirent en foule de ma bouche, comme si elles avaient attendu
derrière mes dents la permission de se répandre. — Jamais je n'ai
parlé avec plus d'éloquence. Je parlai! je parlai… je n'avais qu'un
bras pour faire des gestes, mais ce bras-là me servit beaucoup. — Je
dis à van Horst le moyen que j'avais trouvé pour m'enrichir, et par
quel hasard l'idée m'était venue, et comment j'y songeais toujours,
et la catastrophe finale, et mon espoir, surtout, mon espoir de
réussir encore.
Van Horst ne me quittait pas des yeux. Comme j'achevais, il eut
un sourire.
— Ah! le gaillard! voyez-vous ça! il est ambitieux! Tout de même,
c'est pas mal ce que tu as inventé. Il y a des fautes dans le détail,
mais c'est pas mal. Maintenant que tu as fini, écoute et fais ton
profit de ce que je vais te dire. Pour passer des nuits à cheval,
comme tu en as l'idée, il faut être plus solide que tu ne l'es à
présent. Pendant deux ou trois mois, tu seras forcé de rester
tranquille et de travailler peu. Mais, ces deux ou trois mois passés,
ton système ne vaudra plus rien. L'autre tronçon de la ligne sera fini.
Les journaux arriveront ici, par le chemin de fer, tout comme à
Skykomish.
— Alors?
— Alors, imbécile! on se retourne… on invente autre chose!
Il se leva. Il cravachait gaiement ses bottes en se promenant par
la chambre. Il avait l'air d'une bête impatiente.
« Même quand les projets vous trompent, il faut vivre, » dit-il
encore.
Il mâchait sa pipe, ouvrait et fermait ses mains de boxeur où l'on
ne voyait plus rien des mains habiles qui m'avaient remis le bras.
Elles voulaient lutter, elles s'exaspéraient d'être oisives.
— Tu ne t'ennuies pas, ici, gosse?
— Si, un peu…
— Alors, dit-il, voici. Je suis un homme des routes, je marche
droit devant moi. Je demeurerai quinze jours ici, mais après, je pars.
Je vais aux mines, dans l'Ouest, là-bas, où l'on peut encore se
battre!… Veux-tu venir avec moi? Tu verras du pays. Tu deviendras
un homme. D'ailleurs, tu as déjà commencé ; mais, à ce travail de
chemin de fer, tu finirais par t'abrutir. Ton idée?… Eh bien, tu la
donneras ou tu la vendras à quelqu'un… Tu en es responsable… Tu
m'entends? Il ne faut pas abandonner les projets… ils meurent.
Van Horst s'arrêta, et, tout à coup, sa figure s'obscurcit
singulièrement. Puis il se détourna, et, d'une voix plus dure :
« On est responsable de tout, s'écria-t-il, de tout! de ses regards
et de ses pensées durant le jour, de ses rêves durant la nuit, de
toutes les paroles qu'on a dites et, par avance, de tout le sang qu'on
versera. Viens! Je te montrerai comment on devient fort! Etre fort!
c'est la plus grande des ivresses, la plus belle, car, pour cette
ivresse-là, on ne vomit qu'au fond de la tombe! »
L'homme que, plus tard, je devais mieux connaître, je le voyais
déjà, possédé par des violences contradictoires, par d'étranges
méditations, et dans toute son animalité.
Il se tourna vers moi.
« Est-ce dit? »
J'eus la sensation du coup de dés qui détermine et lui répondis à
voix basse :
« Je vous suivrai! »
 V.

Je restais assis au milieu de ma chambre.

Oh! qu'une convalescence paraît monotone! Je ne m'étais jamais
senti assez malade pour apprécier le charme de ces heures où l'on
reprend goût à vivre, mais j'en avais souffert tout l'ennui. Et puis, les
causeries de van Horst me grisaient comme du vin. Elles me
donnaient une folle envie de courir, de galoper, de grimper sur des
roches, de tirer des coups de fusil. Cet homme animait chaque
chose. Toute aventure était vivante dès qu'il en faisait le récit ; dès
qu'il décrivait, tout paysage était beau.
Une après-midi, il vint s'asseoir près de moi. Il me parla de ces
territoires du West, où nous devions aller, de ces montagnes où l'on
est libre, de ces forêts où l'on est roi. Brusquement, il se tut. La tête
dans les mains, il regardait le plancher. Il avait ainsi des moments de
silence noir que l'on n'eût osé rompre ; moi, du moins.
Le soleil, entrant à grands rayons par la fenêtre, remplissait la
pièce claire et nue de son poudroiement. On entendait, au dehors,
des ouvriers qui chantaient en chœur. Il passait de la joie dans l'air.
Possédé par de nouveaux rêves, je ne me souvenais plus d'avoir été
malade.
Van Horst subissait-il aussi l'influence de la généreuse lumière qui
vibrait autour de nous?… Son silence ne dura pas. Il leva le front et
se remit à parler.
 « Oui, nous irons là-bas! Le monde, c'est beau à voir. Depuis dix
ans, je marche à travers le monde et, chaque jour, le monde est
nouveau. »
Il y avait presque de la tendresse dans son accent :
« Je crois que tu seras un bon compagnon. Moi… moi… il me
semble parfois que j'ai vu trop de choses laides. Les actions
d'hommes, c'est laid… c'est toujours laid!… Mais les arbres! les
vagues! les montagnes! »
Il prononçait ces mots avec un enthousiasme de poète et,
s'échauffant peu à peu :
« Pense à mes courses en forêt! » s'écria-t-il.
Il me les raconta. — Il décrivit les fleuves lourds, les cieux qui
tournent sur la tête du dormeur, les hasards de la belle étoile, les
plaintes nocturnes des oiseaux, enfin, la terrible survenue des pluies
qui noient la plaine. — Sa voix sourde et basse éclatait parfois.
L'orgue, puis les cuivres. Il y avait là des sanglots, de la fièvre, de la
colère, du désespoir et, souvent aussi, de la joie, une joie animale et
saine gonflée par les brises. Et moi, je marchais sous le soleil dur, je
souffrais de la faim et de la soif, je m'endormais à l'ombre d'un arbre
gigantesque, je voyais le but apparaître sur l'horizon et le croyais
aussitôt à portée de la main! Je vivais! je vivais! J'aurais voulu crier
de plaisir!

La porte s'ouvrit. La servante de l'auberge entra, tenant un verre

de whisky que van Horst avait demandé. Elle s'arrêta, stupéfaite,
devant cet homme qui parcourait la pièce à grands pas, le sang aux
joues.
J'étais appuyé contre la fenêtre. Van Horst parlait toujours, et la
petite servante, immobile, la bouche ronde, les yeux bêtes… restait
là.
Le vent apporta dans la chambre blanche quelques fleurs de
l'arbre qui poussait au milieu de la cour. Les corolles répandues