Warning: this chapter contains Graphic Depictions of Violence due to torture/interrogation.

Also I'm sorry don't be mad everything is going to be fine I swear!

Chapter 11: Pinkertons

Arthur woke slowly, his head feeling fuzzy. Hushed voices spoke all around him, and someone sat right next to him. His body felt disconnected from his brain, but he could tell he was laying on his stomach. That was odd. He never liked sleeping on his stomach and almost always woke up on his back. Why then… it didn't matter. He started to shift to turn over, ignoring the nagging thought that it wasn't a good idea.

Immediately he choked out a gasp, pain flaring through his whole back. Further attempts to simply breathe didn't bring any relief. Instead he was trapped in the same agony, managing only a small groan, unable to ask what happened or for help.

"Arthur?"

The hand fell on his own, giving it a short squeeze. He flinched, letting out a whimper at the sudden contact. But the hand squeezed his again, grounding him. He knew the voice, too.

"Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?"

He blinked once, twice, trying to turn the swirling colors and blurry shapes into Albert's face. The man's eyes were red, but he managed a shaky smile when he met Arthur eyes. "Hey, you're okay. Just don't move, alright?"

"Al?" Arthur croaked. His throat was too dry, his whole body too hot and sweaty. Albert seemed to recognize it, because a glass of water was being pushed against his lips. It was an awkward angle, trying to drink laying down, but Albert helped him tilt his head to the side. Arthur could tell that the pain finally concentrated itself around his left shoulder. Clearly, someone had shot him, but why? He remembered talking with John, then Dutch and Strauss. "What…"

"You were shot. There was a fight with some outlaws. You ran out into the road and saved a girl."

It was coming back to him slowly. The shooting, the woman trying to run past him. Dutch. What had gone wrong to cause them to take on the entire town? In the moment, it felt like Strawberry all over again, like Blackwater.

"The girl?"

"She's fine," Albert said, soft and reassuring. "A little shook up, and no wonder that that! Her mother will want to thank you at some point, I'm sure, but for now you need to rest."

Arthur felt himself starting to fade away, and he was almost grateful for it. Except questions still nagged at him, and he tried to fight against the pull of sleep. He shifted again, causing another groan to slip out, and Albert's other hand came to rest on his cheek. "You're alright. The doctor got the bullet out and we're going to take care of you. Trust me, you'll be saving my neck from wild animals in no time.

Arthur sighed, and let go.

He was able to take in his surroundings more and more each time he woke up. They were set up in the saloon, the bar now stocked with bandages next to the liquor bottles. There were several people on cots around them, but less the next time he opened his eyes. He hoped it was because they were getting better, well enough to go home, but Albert's tired, bloodshot eyes and constant worrying made him believe that those men had died. The photographer barely left him, keeping a cool, damp towel on his forehead and helping him drink water.

There was always activity about in the saloon, and Arthur did his best to ignore it. The doctor occasionally came over to check on his bandages and change them if necessary or give him medicine to help with the slight fever, which fortunately was staying low and well within control. But the lawmen surrounding the area gave Arthur a pause, and he hoped his current position as a victim would keep suspicion away from him.

Albert answered most of the initial questions, and they generally left the pair alone. When he did end up talking to a lawman, it was Sheriff Malloy, who seemed very put out that one of the bounty hunters he intended to send after the Van der Linde gang was currently out of commission.

Mrs. Walker, the mother of the girl Arthur saved, thanked Arthur profusely and offered to pay for all medical expenses. He tried to politely refused, but she insisted.

And most importantly, he heard nothing about the capture or location of the Van der Linde gang. As much as Arthur questioned Dutch's decisions in Valentine, at least they had gotten away. He couldn't imagine the law descending on the gang at Horseshoe Overlook, with little Jack and the women all trapped against the cliff, the deaths that inevitably would have occurred after the gang already lost so many.

But for now, his friends were safe. Once he was able, he would send letters to Tacitus Kilgore in the towns nearby to try to figure out where they went.

He was dozing lightly when a pair of boots walked up to his cot.

"That him?" one of the men said.

Albert piped up, knowing Arthur needed rest, "Can I help you gentlemen?"

Shuffling, a short cry as someone was shoved back, and rough hand grasped his shoulder and flipped on his back. The fire spiked in his back and the air he pulled in burned his lungs as a mustached man leaned over and inspected Arthur's face. "Yeah, it's him."

His partner joined, wearing a red vest, gray coat, and shining badge that matched the other man's outfit. "Hello, Mr. Morgan. My name is Agent Milton of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. This is Agent Ross. We have some questions about Mr. Van der Linde." He turned to a different, unnamed agent and said, "Get him up."

More hands pulled him up to his feet, and he stumbled trying to get his weight under him. They didn't give him a moment to adjust, simply dragging him out of the saloon and into the street. Albert's voice broke through the panic and pain-induced haze. "What are you doing? He was shot!" Several other voices around the saloon rose up to join Albert, probably remembering what Arthur did during the shootout.

He collapsed on the steps leading off the saloon porch, feet dragging behind him, letting out a low groan when the agents didn't stop pulling him along. Another voice shouted out, was that Mickey? "Hey, that's my friend! Why are you hurting my friend?" The agents moved on without acknowledging Mickey, taking Arthur to a jail cell and tying him to a chair right in the middle.

Arthur's head slumped forward onto his chest, dizzy and exhausted. But a hand attached itself to his hair and yanked his head back, and he blinked up into the steady glare of the mustached agent's eyes. What was his name? Ross?

"Now, Mr. Morgan. We've been hired by Leviticus Cornwall to capture Dutch van der Linde and bring him to justice. You see, Cornwall knew we have been hunting you since the Blackwater ferry robbery, and he was very willing to share the information he's discovered about your gang's location. Of course, they were gone by the time we arrived, but it seems they made a mistake in leaving you behind. Now if you help us find Van der Linde, I can guarantee you won't swing."

For once, Arthur was being asked questions by the law that he could not answer. He had no idea where the gang was, or where they could even go, considering this was the furthest east they had been in years. "I don't know. I left the gang weeks ago," he replied honestly.

The punch landed on his cheek, snapping his head to the side and causing stars to explode across his vision. "Now, I don't believe that for a second," Ross said. "You'll tell me where they've gone, or this will be a long night for you indeed."

Arthur spat out some blood from where he bit the inside of his cheek. "I don't know," he said, fully expecting to get hit again. And he wasn't wrong. Ross landed more blows on Arthur's face, then ribs, leaving him coughing and gasping even more. Still, Arthur succeeded in keeping mostly silent, only letting a few groans slip out.

Ross walked around behind Arthur, causing him to tense up. He could barely turn his head without pulling on his shoulder muscles. The lawman's hand brushed across Arthur's bandaged shoulder, and he flinched as far as he could in the ropes. "That was a nasty wound, I heard." A knife sliced through the bandages, catching a bit of his skin. "Doesn't look too bad now. Definitely not what Mac Callander looked like when we found him." Arthur's stomach dropped, hearing about their last missing gang member. They found Sean, sure, but never heard anything about Mac. "He didn't last very long, bled out before we could get information out of him. But you'll last longer. Wound's not infected, at least. For the moment." Ross brought his fingers close, and Arthur tried to stifle a gasp, heart beating faster and faster. "Tell me where Van der Linde is."

"I told you. I left the gang. Don't know where they've gone."

"Well, that's too bad for you," said Ross as he dug his thumb directly into the bullet wound.

Arthur screamed.

Hours later, he was still tied to the chair, weak and wheezing. Ross hadn't given him a break from the agony, transitioning from the punches and the kicks to beating injured man with a heavy piece of wood. Several ribs had to be broken. The deputy, who had been sitting in the office when they entered, threw up minutes before Arthur himself, running out to find Sheriff Malloy. The sheriff's visit was the only respite Arthur got, since the lawman spent several minutes arguing against Ross's treatment of Arthur. But when Arthur finally slipped into blissful unconsciousness, it didn't last long. A bucket of ice cold water was upended over his head, and he came back up sputtering and shivering. Then, the interrogation started again.

Arthur didn't know when he stopped trying to be strong and silent and started begging for relief. Not that it came, ever. Blood from the bullet wound ran down his back, the injury burning, inflamed and angry, the rest of his left arm long since having gone numb. His head was drenched with water and sweat, and his eyes barely focused anymore.

"Where did Dutch go?"

"Please… stop…"

"How do you contact him?"

"I don't… know… please."

"Where's the Blackwater money hidden?"

"I didn't… only Dutch knows…"

The wood was brought down on his right knee, again and again. He choked and tears fell, eyes clenched shut as he felt the crack deep under his skin. He didn't have the energy or the breath left for screaming.

He was going to die in this chair, he knew that. Accepted it. It didn't make the process of dying any easier, though.

"Stop! Ross, that's enough!" A voice cut through the ringing in his ears, and miraculously, Ross stepped back!

"I was just trying to get information, like you said," Ross complained, probably annoyed that he had to stop beating on a prisoner.

"Take a walk."

A canteen was tilted against his lips, the water mostly just splashing against his chin, but he was able to swallow a little. The man then began inspecting his shoulder, wrapping it in fresh bandages. "I apologize for my partner. He can be rather overzealous at times." The calm but formal voice brought Arthur back to reality a little, relieved to be free from Ross for the moment. "You remember my name? I'm Agent Milton."

Arthur, barely about to speak, only groaned in response.

"You know, I heard from several townsfolk here in Valentine that you weren't part of the shooting at all, didn't help out Dutch or any of the other gang members. In fact, you risked your life to save a kid. Why did you leave the gang, Mr. Morgan?"

That question caught him off guard, so different from the ones he had been answering before. Did this Agent Milton believe him? After so many hours, finally someone had listened.

"Fight," he slurred.

"With Dutch?"

"Yeah."

"I bet that made Dutch van der Linde very angry. Interesting, I think, that you were shot when you weren't aiming a gun at anybody." Milton finished wrapping Arthur's shoulder and crouched down in front of him. "Do you think it might have been Dutch?"

Arthur blinked, heart hammering in his chest. That had him awake again. "What?"

"Really, think about it. Who aims at someone running away from a fight? No one! It's a waste of a bullet. Unless Dutch was aiming at you for revenge. Of course, you know Dutch better than all of us, Mr. Morgan. You would know if he was capable of it."

And as much as Arthur didn't want to consider it, he knew Dutch valued loyalty above all else. He had witnessed Dutch punish those that weren't loyal. Remembered him killing a man in the middle of camp once. But that man had betrayed the gang to the law. Arthur didn't do that!

"And a fight?" Milton continued. "Was it Dutch's fault?"

Yes, Arthur thought. Dutch pushed him off a cliff. But he stayed quiet. Talking was still a little difficult at the moment.

"But there have to be ways to find the gang, if you are ever separated."

He nodded slightly, but that made him dizzy and nauseous, so he stopped. He was going to throw up if he continued.

"Well? How would you find the gang?"

Arthur thought of this for a moment. There were a few ways, of course, but the main one was the mail system. He had planned on using it himself to find Hosea again, just mail to Tacitus Kilgore in several locations until someone responded. Or, of course, just wait for word of a job that seemed to match the gang's usual targets.

He could tell Milton, and maybe then Milton would let him sleep. All he wanted was to sleep. He didn't care if he woke up again. Waking up would just bring him back into the same world of hurt he existed in right now.

Milton stepped back in front of him, and his blurry vision began to focus again. He saw the gray jacket, the red vest, the badge… just like Ross.

It was a trick, not kindness. Milton wanted the same information. He was pretending to be a friend to get Arthur to spill information! It was probably all preplanned with Ross, and Arthur almost fell for it. He needed a lie, a convincing lie!

"Change it. When someone leaves."

"Excuse me?"

"The gang… how to find them… it changes," he muttered again.

Milton's kind face changed. The slight smile dropped away, leaving a firm scowl. "Well, Mr. Morgan, that is a damn shame. For me, and more importantly, for you. But I'm not sure I believe you. Maybe you'll remember more tomorrow. For your sake, I hope it's before I decide to bring Ross back in." He got up and called for the deputy again, the poor kid looking pale when he walked in. "Keep him awake, all night. He doesn't get rest until he tells us how to find Van der Linde."

"But sir, he's hurt pretty bad. He needs a doctor!"

"Why? It's not like we won't hang him if he lives. Who cares?" With that, Milton left.

"I'm sorry," the deputy, who Arthur didn't know well. He gave Arthur more water. "I'm so sorry, this isn't right. I won't wake you up unless he comes back. Please, please hold on!"

Arthur didn't have the energy to talk anymore. He drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to get comfortable with his arms tied behind him, keeping him sitting in a chair. Still, he found himself in a light, restless sleep.

Tapping on his cheeks, light at first but insistent later. He made a slight noise in the back of his throat. Someone was talking, it took effort to make out the words.

"-thur? Arthur, can you hear me?

His eyes opened just a sliver. Everything was blurry. He blinked slow, only seeing a few colors. A bit of green and blue and brown. Mostly dark, though.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, but I don't know how aware he is."

Arthur just wanted to close his eyes, but the other man was insistent. Finally, his vision started to clear. He saw the kind but concerned eyes, the brown beard and hair, the green vest and the blue cotton shirt. "Al?" he whispered, and the man nodded.

"I'm here, Arthur. I'm here. I'm sorry, just stay with me, alright?"

Okay, he thought, but couldn't say out loud. Someone cut the ropes around his wrists and moved his arms forward, but they were too numb and it felt like pins and needles were poking into his muscles. "The stagecoach is outside. We need to move quickly," a different man said. Was that Sheriff Malloy? "Tommy? Can you carry him?"

"Yeah, I got him," a third person Arthur hadn't noticed said. Albert disappeared from his vision, and he started to panic. His breathing quickened, his lungs suddenly feeling rather tight. Arms shifted under his knees and back before he was lifted against someone's chest. His eyes slipped shut again, too disoriented to understand what was happening.

He was transferred to a hard surface, but his head and shoulders were propped up on someone's legs. A hand fell into his matted hair, smoothing out the tangles and a slow, comforting tone reaching his ears. He wanted to open his eyes, but couldn't. So he tried to concentrated on the voice that was talking, just talking at him.

"We'll get you help, Arthur. I promise. I promise. You just have to stay with me, alright? Stay alive."

He sighed, trying to stay awake even if it seemed impossible. Then the surface moved, shaking and bumping and rocking. He squeezed his eyes tighter, leaning into the person under him, the only stable thing in his current world, and let himself fall into a deep sleep.