I do NOT own The Big Valley or any of the original Barkley characters.

Against the Crooked Sky

Chapter Six

Morning came early, and it found Paul and Jarrod once more headed east towards Twain Harte. Low hills could be seen wandering off to their right and some higher peaks could be seen off to their left. If it weren't for the time limit Jarrod had put himself, he would have stopped his horse and enjoyed the scenery more. As it was, he continued pushing Jingo on. The sooner he got to his destination, the sooner he could meet with the agents and get this deal over with. The sooner the deal was over, the sooner he could get out of the unstable area and back to California.

It was Paul who finally broke the silence. He only spoke the doubts that had finally pushed their way to the front of Jarrod's mind. "I still think something ain't right my friend. I mean, establishing reservations is one thing, but the kind of men you're talking about? Insisting on personally seeing the area before the details are put down in print? It doesn't make sense."

Jarrod sighed as they rode alongside rocky slope and he shrugged his shoulders, "I know, I've been thinking more on it. I don't understand though. Brian Miller assured me he had checked everything out, and that everything was on the up and up. I just assumed the men wanted to mix business with pleasure." He knew plenty of men who did that; he'd even done it at times.

Paul gave him a strange look as it came to him what else was bothering him. "Why didn't you have Brigham check it out?" Brigham had been working for Jarrod for some time now; Paul couldn't understand Jarrod taking someone else's word when he had someone like his brother-in-law. Brigham was a great investigator. Paul was sure he probably had more contacts than anyone in California.

"I would have, but he was doing some investigation for me on an important case and was extremely busy as it was. Besides, Brian's pretty thorough when he gets it into his head to investigate anything." Jarrod answered. By the time the sun started setting again, they were still thirty miles from the Sonora Pass. Jarrod dismounted his horse and went to work setting up camp; Paul did the same.

As they sat around the fire once more, Paul shocked Jarrod by asking, "Just how well do you know your friend?" As he asked the question, Paul was remembering all the "friends" he'd seen through the years. Most of them were like glue, stuck right with you no matter what, but others? He sighed, the others weren't really friends; that is, friends like some he'd seen were better off labeled as enemies.

Jarrod didn't answer right away. He'd known Brian for years, met him when he moved to Stockton with his family when the man was only twelve. Sure, at first they'd been more like staunch enemies, but by the time they turned sixteen they were the best of friends. "Pretty good as far as I know, why?" Jarrod looked at Paul, troubled to see a look of concern upon the old man's face.

Paul shrugged his shoulders, "I don't know, just trying to make sense out of something that doesn't make any. It's a habit I've picked up through the years." He fell into silence as he leaned went back to drinking his coffee and enjoying the sounds of the night. The silence left Jarrod to dwell more on the man called Brian Miller.

How well did he know the man? He knew his name, of course. The fact that he knew Mr. Miller's parents and siblings were a given. The man loved puzzles and social events (such as dances) and he had a wicked sense of humor at times. Mr. Miller kept his word, when he gave it and, as far as Jarrod knew, had fought for truth just as hard as he had. So why was Paul's question sitting in his gut like pushing and prodding him to think harder? "Sometimes, when hard times come, a good man can forget what's important and turn to other sources for comfort and, if he doesn't catch himself soon enough, can find himself having a very hard fall." His father's words again rang in his ears. For the first time since leaving Stockton, Jarrod found himself with a very horrible thought; was it possible Brian had, for some reason, lied to him from the beginning?

Jarrod finished his cup of coffee and set his cup down. "How fast do you think we could make Hawthorne?" He looked at Paul as he asked the question. He wanted to get to the town and get a wire off, but he didn't want to push Paul. The man may be young enough to travel with him, but he was old enough that Jarrod didn't want to start pushing his luck either.

"If we keep a steady pace," Paul answered as he set his own cup down, "I'd say no more than three or four days. Now I'm the one asking why." He kept his eyes on Jarrod, wondering if he, Paul, had hit a nerve somewhere along the line.

Jarrod rested his arms on his legs, with his hands hanging down as he gazed into the fire they had going. He hated doing what he now felt he had to do. "I need to send a telegram." he replied not really wanting to go into details. It's not that Paul wouldn't have listened, or that Jarrod didn't feel like he wasn't trustworthy, Jarrod just didn't feel like explaining either.

Paul didn't push for any information. He'd been around the block more times than a body could shake a stick at; he'd met saints, sinners and those who seemed to be trying to straddle the fence (Though, he never could figure that one out). All he ever saw when someone tried to saddle any fence was a lot of unnecessary trial and sorrow. "We'll head to the telegraph office the moment we get there," Paul promised as he went to lie down; Jarrod sat up for another hour before going to bed.