Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Larry McMurtry, the staff writers of Lonesome Dove: The Outlaw Years (of whom I am not one), and by Rysher Entertainment. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
Posted by: Elspethdixon
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mention of Mosby/Hannah

Warnings: Spoilers for first season episode �Law and Order.�

Because Mosby isn't the only pretty southerner around for the torturing.

He was guilty as charged; there was no way of getting around it. It was useless arguing that he hadn't wanted to do it, hadn't intended to do it, had merely given that wretched stable hand an angry shove to get the man out of his way--he'd already tried all of those explanations and more, and nobody had been disposed to listen. Not even the damn judge.

It would be the bitterest kind of irony if, after all of the crimes he had willfully committed, he ended up hanging for killing a man by accident.

God, he didn't want to hang�

Robert shifted his weight again, trying to find some position where the iron shackles wouldn't cut into his wrists, and then gave up, letting himself sag back against the wall of the shed. There was no way to be even halfway comfortable in shackles. That was what shackles were for; to leave a man weighed down and awkward and humiliatingly helpless, like a runaway slave awaiting the whip.

Moving hurt, anyway, sent stabs of pain through the bruises the good people of Curtis Wells had left stamped into his ribs and stomach. His head ached from the punches he'd taken, and his split lip was a sharp jab of pain every time he licked his dry lips.

Thirst was also a part of being in shackles, like pain and hunger and fear.

Clay would find a way to get him out of this. He had too. Clay looked out for his men, no matter how bad things got, and they'd been stuck in situations a lot worse than this in the past. Not recently, granted, but�

But Clay, a small, traitorous part of him whispered, had been damnably unreliable of late, ever since this wretched little town had cast its spell on him. Clay was more than willing to endanger his own life just for the chance to hang around and moon over Hannah Call, and it could be that he was fixated enough on her to toss Robert's life into the bargain, too. He could be frighteningly ruthless when he wanted something.

But not ruthless enough to let him hang. Not after everything they'd been through together.

Robert closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall; it made the throbbing in his temples die down a little, and as long as he held still, none of the bruises hurt too badly. After a few minutes, the aches and thirst faded into a sort of background discomfort, familiar enough to be almost ignorable. The shackles still hurt, biting into his wrists and wrenching at his shoulders, but there was nothing to be done about them. A noose was probably a whole hell of a lot more painful.

He hoped Clay figured out how to get him out of this place soon.