I do NOT own The Big Valley or any of the original Barkley characters. Thanks to my Beta Reader, though all mistakes are still my own.
Blindsided
Chapter Eighteen
Brigham stood behind the bar keeping his eyes open. Sooner or later, he knew those men would show up or at least one of them. That is, if they were in any form or shape connected to the Nevada job. When one of the strangers finally walked in, the scene from just that morning played in his mind. "You be careful." Audra had stood in front of the Miller's home with her arms around his waist. "I want to see you back safe." He'd kissed her and assured her he'd do just that. "Adam needs someone to tend bar for him for the next few weeks. I can guarantee you; those men will have to talk with coded sentences if they do talk to me." He continued with what he was doing until the stranger leaned against the bar. Brigham recognized him as the third man at the dance, the one who had not spoken even once.
"May I help you?" Brigham looked at the bearded man as if he was just another customer; he'd learned years ago how important it was not to let anyone know what was going on inside of you, not when it came this business, the only time an exception was made was with Audra.
"A beer and some conversation." The stranger tossed his money onto the counter. Brigham took it and got the man his beer.
"Here's your drink," Brigham said as he put the beer down, "conversation don't cost anythin'." He kept his eye on the man. Now, standing so close to him, there was something familiar about the man, but what?
The man lowered his voice, as there were a couple of patrons off in the corner. "Roads are all the same anymore; too much dust and not enough water." He looked directly into Brigham's eyes. Brigham had shock waves go through him.
"Peter!" Brigham managed to say the name soft enough that only his friend could hear. Peter was another excellent investigator, whom he had not seen in almost five years. "What are you doin' here?" He had to talk normal as he was afraid he'd raise the other customers' curiosity if he didn't.
"My 'friends' and I have been on a bit of search, thought we find some action in Nevada but Alan got this in the last town we were in. He thinks it was lost; he doesn't know I found it and kept it." Peter took out a telegram and handed it to Brigham.
Brigham's eyes widened as he saw the words, "The rest of the party Supplies in California. Leaving soon. Get to Nevada soon. M.S." M.S. he knew was rumored to be the other side's leader, Mitchell Staple. Party Supplies...the term he and the other investigators, private or Pinkertons, had been told was the term they'd learned was chosen to refer to rifles and ammunition by the men who were on the side of the Indians. Good grief, everyone had been wasting time rounding up the players, figuring any guns they'd be giving the Indians were already in Nevada! "So, where are the supplies?" he asked as he handed the telegram back to Peter.
"I have no idea; Alan said he didn't, but I don't believe him." Peter tore the telegram in so many pieces no one would have been able to put them back together if their life depended on it. "We've been looking, but had to stop when he fell last night and busted his hip, along with a few other things. Doc doesn't know if he'll make it or not."
Ouch! Brigham couldn't help but cringe slightly. As his mind rolled the information around in his head, Peter had moved his vest in order to get something out of its inside pocket. It was all Brigham could do to keep his composure as he saw the handle of a pocket knife; one he himself had given to his mentor not all that long ago. "I'll keep this as long as I kept my old one." The man's words echoed in his mind. The man's old one had been in his possession for over twenty years. "How about havin' a few on me?" Brigham poured Peter another drink.
"Thanks." Peter took the drink and then set it down. "Hey, what about joining me in the search? After all," he was still speaking low, "you're one of the best. I'm sure we could find those supplies without a problem."
Brigham had the most horrid feeling come over him as Peter spoke. There was something different about the man, something had changed over the years, besides the added beard and, after seeing the knife, he feared it wasn't a good change. "Alan says he doesn't know…he fell and broke his hip….doesn't know if he'll make it..." All of a sudden, Brigham didn't know why, but he knew his mentor was dead and Alan's fall had been no accident. "Peter, how could you? How could you have gone so bad?" Brigham wasn't about to allow himself to be alone with two men who, for whatever reason they had, wanted to get to the guns meant for the Indians.
"I'm not an investigator anymore," Brigham lied through a very serious face, "had too many close calls myself." He poured the man another drink. Brigham didn't care if he had to pay for every one of the beers the man drank. The man knew more than he was letting on. Maybe, just maybe, he'd open up more if he was drunk.
"Thanks, friend." Peter took the glass and drank it down. Peter started to try to persuade Brigham to join him and Brigham continued to pay for his beers. Thank goodness the night was a very dead one. By the time the night was over, Peter was lying, passed out, in one of the sheriff's cells, his friend was sitting in the cell next to him and Brigham was high tailing it back to the Miller's and to Audra.