ACES WILD (1/?)
Title:ACES WILD
Author: andiivalo
Category: Gen, AU, Western
Characters: Dean, Sam, Crowley.
Pairings: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The year is 1882, the place is Yuma prison. Fergus MacLeod is awaiting trial and less than impressed with his new cellmate, the notorious outlaw Dean Winchester. Can they resolve their differences and form an escape plan, or is there a bigger agenda in play? What follows is deception, double dealing and deadly peril as the stakes increase along with the six shooters.
Yuma Prison, 1882
Time’s like a train which stops for no man. It steams relentlessly forward, taking on passengers, prisoners and crow bait alongside water and fuel. Should a man be unfortunate or stupid enough to board the wrong locomotive, then God have mercy on his soul.
That’s if he possesses a soul, of course.
The man sometimes known as Fergus MacLeod swore as a fierce gust of wind blew sand into his face. He wiped a sleeve across his stinging eyes before risking a final look into the yard. There wasn’t much to see anymore, the sandstorm came out of nowhere a few minutes ago and was raging so hard visibility was down to a few feet. He had no trouble visualising what was out there though, the view had long ago burned itself into his memory.
He conceded defeat and hooked an old blanket across the inadequate window. He knew from experience that when winter storms like this blasted sand into his living quarters it lingered for days. It found its way into nooks and crannies, bedding, clothing, even a man’s hair and the sensitive folds of his skin. Sand in the nether regions was something a man like MacLeod should never have to endure.
He wasn’t sure what time it was but estimated somewhere close to eight. The storm had obliterated the sinking sun’s rays, bringing dusk sooner than usual and the blanket across the window only added to the gloom. He eyed the candle on the floor beside his bunk, wondering if he should light it. He didn’t know when or where the next one might come from but then his gaze fell on the other bunk, unoccupied for two months and he instantly strode over and struck match to wick.
The small, whitewashed stone room looked friendlier in the flickering yellow light but this wasn’t a place MacLeod would ever call home. This had been thrust on him, imposed against his will and he was sick to the back teeth of being here.
He’d stood at the window too long. His lower back and left leg were aching and it would only get worse, disturbing his sleep and infecting his dreams. He lay gingerly on his bunk and pulled a book from under his pillow. It was a compendium of Edgar Allen Poe stories and McLeod was enjoying it immensely. Normally it could take his mind away from the nagging pain and tense, edgy restlessness he’d felt since learning that second bunk was about to be filled. Tonight though, this close to zero hour; no dice.
He heard the prison bell toll eight times, heralding the official start of night time. It was muffled by the storm but his ears were so attuned now that it could wake him from the darkest depths of sleep. Over the past months he’d learned to hate that sound and everything it stood for.
He put the book down with a sigh and blew out the candle. No sense wasting good light. It was unlikely he’d meet his new companion until the weather improved, since nobody was fool enough to walk even a few feet in a stinging, blinding sandstorm. He was certain the man wasn’t far away though, he’d heard the prison train arrive an hour ago and even though the railroad was a way off, well below the bluff, sound carried in the desert.
MacLeod closed his eyes and tried to relax; aware this might be the last peace he’d get in a while. Who knew what he might be forced to endure after tonight? The man might snore, talk in his sleep or worse. He might be flatulent, slovenly and uncouth. These were all distinct probabilities and MacLeod fought down a stab of irritation, wishing the bastards running his life would just let him be. Why did they need to change things now? He hadn’t caused much mischief, he’d made solid bribes and laid down good money for the few luxuries he’d procured and he was Fergus bloody MacLeod, dammit. He was entitled to his privacy, his solitude and a few hours of peace between sunset and dawn. If this latest fuckwit threatened that in any way, he’d get his features rearranged in record time.
MacLeod’s heart was palpitating, he’d broken into a sweat and he pulled himself together with a stern reprimand regarding his own weakness. He rarely let emotion get the best of him, things ended disappointingly when he did and he realised he was looking at things the wrong way. He needed to treat the new arrival as an opportunity rather than a threat. The meagre scraps of information he’d gleaned about the man suggested that with delicate handling he might turn his fortunes around and take back control of his life. Until recently he’d been weak and incapacitated, but his strength was returning rapidly and Fergus MacLeod was almost back to his former self. Who in hell could resist that?
He only discovered he’d dozed off when approaching voices roused him. The room was fully dark now and very quiet, the storm long since passed. The voices stopped outside his door, light illuminated the blanket across the window and MacLeod pulled himself upright, listening to the familiar sound of key in lock. The door was thrown open to reveal a group of shadowy figures, one holding a lamp. A man was pushed into the room and he stumbled then fell to his knees as one of the guards outside spoke sternly.
“Don’t get comfortable, prisoner. You need processing before you settle for the night.”
The door slammed shut and the key turned again. The light receded then everything was black as pitch. MacLeod listened intently but couldn’t hear a thing. It unnerved him how some stranger was right beside his bed but he couldn’t even hear him breathe. He knew he was there from the smell though. MacLeod wrinkled his nose at the harsh, sharp odour, thankful the processing procedure included bathing and clean garments because this man hadn’t washed in a long time. Spooked by the nature of his predicament he felt for the candle and lit it deftly. The man was kneeling in the exact place he’d fallen and MacLeod gave him a quick, derisory inspection as he jerked his chin at the vacant bunk.
“That one’s yours. I recommend you stay off it until you’ve bathed.”
It was as though he hadn’t spoken. The newcomer ignored him completely as he got slowly to his feet. He was tall, well built and might have been young but it was difficult to gauge with grime all over his face. His clothes were filthy and spotted with blood, his hair so matted and greasy it was hard to know the colour. He hadn’t seen a razor in quite some time and it was impossible to tell where his hair ended and the straggly beard and moustache began. His eyes were dark in the candlelight and glinted with something which might have been intelligence, or danger but was just as likely a trick of the light. MacLeod hitched himself higher on his bunk.
“It appears we’ve been forced together as bunk mates so how about we get acquainted? My name’s Fergus MacLeod.”
Most people knew the name and it usually elicited some kind of reaction. MacLeod was certain this fellow had heard it plenty of times, given his reputation and current location but there was no flicker of recognition. There was no response at all actually, the man dropped heavily onto the edge of his bunk and stared round the room. MacLeod wondered if he was some kind of half-wit but made another effort to engage him, struggling to keep his voice polite.
“And you are?”
The dark eyes lingered on him for the briefest second then resumed their scrutiny of the walls. MacLeod was getting irritated but managed to force out a laugh.
“Yuma prison does tend to scare the panties off newcomers. I understand if you don’t feel like talking.”
The man’s gaze swung back and MacLeod finally had his full attention. None of his words had hit their target and the man didn’t seem remotely offended or provoked by his barbs. On the contrary he seemed amused and his mouth pulled up into an insolent smirk.
“You’re talking enough for us both, buddy but don’t get nervous on my account.”
His voice was a rough and deep, the words spoken boldly with a suggestion of menace. They both knew he’d made an effective parry but MacLeod pasted an affable smile onto his face.
“Since I’ve taken the trouble to introduce myself, would reciprocation be too much to hope for?”
The newcomer snorted his disdain. “A man like you should already have it.”
MacLeod leaned against the headboard of his bunk, feigning indifference but quietly reassured. His cellmate knew exactly who he was. He sighed dramatically.
“Not so long ago a prisoner with liquid assets might buy a guard’s co-operation, loosen his tongue and encourage him to turn a blind eye to certain proclivities. But Yuma’s no longer the party town it once was, I’m sorry to say. Six months ago we were unfortunate enough to get a new governor; an insignificant tick from the Confederate army who can’t accept his team lost and let it twist him into a bitter, sadistic cock sucker. The first thing he did was fire the entire staff and replace them with his own minions. They’re mostly army tossers, just like him and there’s no getting through to them.”
“How long you been here, MacLeod?”
The newcomer sounded interested but MacLeod wasn’t about to give up any personal information until he got something substantial in return.
“Long enough to know and it’s not just the guards getting tight lipped either. The punishments are preposterous and there’s all kinds of new rules to break. Once upon a time you’d get a few days in the dark cells for stepping out of line, now there’s whippings, beatings and if a prisoner tries to escape they shoot to kill.”
The man was smirking again. “Is that why you’re still here?”
MacLeod was offended and about to deliver a piece of his mind something out in the yard alerted his sixth sense. He got up to investigate and swore as pain needled down his back and leg. He limped to the door, pulled the blanket aside and peered out. Light was spilling from the door of the guardhouse, right across the exercise yard from his cell and a group of men were heading his way. He turned to his new companion.
“You’re about to get processed, mate. God only knows you could use that bath.”
The news had an effect on the man. He seemed decidedly edgy and MacLeod smiled thinly. “Are we frightened of a little soap and kerosene?”
The newcomer stood up and rummaged in the back of his pants. MacLeod watched with a grimace, nervous of what he was about to experience. To his surprise the man produced a half bottle of liquor and a fat roll of money.
“Where do I stash this?”
It was a demand rather than a question. MacLeod didn’t have time to ponder his audacity, how he’d managed to smuggle contraband into Yuma prison or how awful it might smell. He could hear footsteps getting close and he snatched the items from the man’s hands, stuffed them under his mattress then lay on top of the bunk, legs crossed and fingers laced behind his head.
Their owner was watching him, decidedly nonplussed. “You can help yourself to some hooch while I’m gone, but I know exactly how much money’s in that roll.”
MacLeod raised his eyebrows in mock offence. “Are you implying I’m a thief?”
The man shrugged. “Any other reason you’d be in Yuma prison?”
A key rattled and three armed guards came through the door. One was holding a lamp and MacLeod flinched as fierce light hit him right in the face. He knew them all. Two were old hands, tough, grizzled ex-soldiers who seldom spoke except to caution prisoners. The third, the lamp-bearer was a much younger man who’d arrived about a month ago. He was impossibly tall, lean as a whip and wore his hair long and shaggy. MacLeod knew him only as Campbell and from the way he slouched round the prison, it was clear he’d never set foot in the army. He was quiet and cagey to begin with but it hadn’t taken MacLeod long to strike up a dialogue.
With time, patience and persuasion, MacLeod had him running errands in exchange for cash. Campbell provided his meagre resources: candles, blankets, laudanum, specialised reading material and the odd quart of whisky. He also shared what scant information came into his possession. It was Campbell who’d spilled the beans on his new cellmate, an outlaw who’d led a notorious gang and currently had five thousand dollars on his head. He was wanted in a dozen states and territories for crimes which included armed robbery, gambling, cheating, rustling, murder and worse. Campbell either could not or would not provide the man’s identity.
MacLeod had been impressed by this description and as he watched his nameless cellmate staring contemptuously at the guards, he was acutely aware of the peril he might be in. The fellow might look like a bedraggled tramp but looks were deceiving and MacLeod had never been fooled by them. He was tough and smart enough to lead a gang of desperados, resourceful enough to evade capture for years and dangerous enough to be placed in the highest security cell Yuma Prison could muster. MacLeod knew with absolute certainty his bunkmate was going to be trouble.
Campbell stepped closer to the grimy newcomer, held up the lamp and wrinkled his nose.
“You smell worse than a sewer rat. You’re good and ready for that bath, aren’t you?”
It was only because MacLeod was looking directly at them that he saw what passed between them. The angle of the lamp prevented the other guards from noticing the prisoner give a slight nod and a wink. Campbell immediately grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards the cell door. The prisoner swore and pushed him roughly away.
“Keep your hands off me, you goddamned moose.”
MacLeod chuckled, because the name suited the lanky guard perfectly. A moment later the other guards were all over the newcomer. They pinioned his arms and hauled him outside, still struggling and cursing.
Campbell was pulling the cell door closed when MacLeod called to him.
“What’s his name?”
The guard frowned at him, puzzled.
“Losing your touch, MacLeod?”
MacLeod sat up on his bunk, feeling the bottle of liquor press into his buttocks.
“They haven’t told you his name? Is information like that above your pay grade, sonny?”
Campbell thought about that for a second then reacted predictably. His face split into a broad grin.
“You just met Dean Winchester and he’s one evil son of a bitch. I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.”
Author: andiivalo
Category: Gen, AU, Western
Characters: Dean, Sam, Crowley.
Pairings: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The year is 1882, the place is Yuma prison. Fergus MacLeod is awaiting trial and less than impressed with his new cellmate, the notorious outlaw Dean Winchester. Can they resolve their differences and form an escape plan, or is there a bigger agenda in play? What follows is deception, double dealing and deadly peril as the stakes increase along with the six shooters.
Yuma Prison, 1882
Time’s like a train which stops for no man. It steams relentlessly forward, taking on passengers, prisoners and crow bait alongside water and fuel. Should a man be unfortunate or stupid enough to board the wrong locomotive, then God have mercy on his soul.
That’s if he possesses a soul, of course.
The man sometimes known as Fergus MacLeod swore as a fierce gust of wind blew sand into his face. He wiped a sleeve across his stinging eyes before risking a final look into the yard. There wasn’t much to see anymore, the sandstorm came out of nowhere a few minutes ago and was raging so hard visibility was down to a few feet. He had no trouble visualising what was out there though, the view had long ago burned itself into his memory.
He conceded defeat and hooked an old blanket across the inadequate window. He knew from experience that when winter storms like this blasted sand into his living quarters it lingered for days. It found its way into nooks and crannies, bedding, clothing, even a man’s hair and the sensitive folds of his skin. Sand in the nether regions was something a man like MacLeod should never have to endure.
He wasn’t sure what time it was but estimated somewhere close to eight. The storm had obliterated the sinking sun’s rays, bringing dusk sooner than usual and the blanket across the window only added to the gloom. He eyed the candle on the floor beside his bunk, wondering if he should light it. He didn’t know when or where the next one might come from but then his gaze fell on the other bunk, unoccupied for two months and he instantly strode over and struck match to wick.
The small, whitewashed stone room looked friendlier in the flickering yellow light but this wasn’t a place MacLeod would ever call home. This had been thrust on him, imposed against his will and he was sick to the back teeth of being here.
He’d stood at the window too long. His lower back and left leg were aching and it would only get worse, disturbing his sleep and infecting his dreams. He lay gingerly on his bunk and pulled a book from under his pillow. It was a compendium of Edgar Allen Poe stories and McLeod was enjoying it immensely. Normally it could take his mind away from the nagging pain and tense, edgy restlessness he’d felt since learning that second bunk was about to be filled. Tonight though, this close to zero hour; no dice.
He heard the prison bell toll eight times, heralding the official start of night time. It was muffled by the storm but his ears were so attuned now that it could wake him from the darkest depths of sleep. Over the past months he’d learned to hate that sound and everything it stood for.
He put the book down with a sigh and blew out the candle. No sense wasting good light. It was unlikely he’d meet his new companion until the weather improved, since nobody was fool enough to walk even a few feet in a stinging, blinding sandstorm. He was certain the man wasn’t far away though, he’d heard the prison train arrive an hour ago and even though the railroad was a way off, well below the bluff, sound carried in the desert.
MacLeod closed his eyes and tried to relax; aware this might be the last peace he’d get in a while. Who knew what he might be forced to endure after tonight? The man might snore, talk in his sleep or worse. He might be flatulent, slovenly and uncouth. These were all distinct probabilities and MacLeod fought down a stab of irritation, wishing the bastards running his life would just let him be. Why did they need to change things now? He hadn’t caused much mischief, he’d made solid bribes and laid down good money for the few luxuries he’d procured and he was Fergus bloody MacLeod, dammit. He was entitled to his privacy, his solitude and a few hours of peace between sunset and dawn. If this latest fuckwit threatened that in any way, he’d get his features rearranged in record time.
MacLeod’s heart was palpitating, he’d broken into a sweat and he pulled himself together with a stern reprimand regarding his own weakness. He rarely let emotion get the best of him, things ended disappointingly when he did and he realised he was looking at things the wrong way. He needed to treat the new arrival as an opportunity rather than a threat. The meagre scraps of information he’d gleaned about the man suggested that with delicate handling he might turn his fortunes around and take back control of his life. Until recently he’d been weak and incapacitated, but his strength was returning rapidly and Fergus MacLeod was almost back to his former self. Who in hell could resist that?
He only discovered he’d dozed off when approaching voices roused him. The room was fully dark now and very quiet, the storm long since passed. The voices stopped outside his door, light illuminated the blanket across the window and MacLeod pulled himself upright, listening to the familiar sound of key in lock. The door was thrown open to reveal a group of shadowy figures, one holding a lamp. A man was pushed into the room and he stumbled then fell to his knees as one of the guards outside spoke sternly.
“Don’t get comfortable, prisoner. You need processing before you settle for the night.”
The door slammed shut and the key turned again. The light receded then everything was black as pitch. MacLeod listened intently but couldn’t hear a thing. It unnerved him how some stranger was right beside his bed but he couldn’t even hear him breathe. He knew he was there from the smell though. MacLeod wrinkled his nose at the harsh, sharp odour, thankful the processing procedure included bathing and clean garments because this man hadn’t washed in a long time. Spooked by the nature of his predicament he felt for the candle and lit it deftly. The man was kneeling in the exact place he’d fallen and MacLeod gave him a quick, derisory inspection as he jerked his chin at the vacant bunk.
“That one’s yours. I recommend you stay off it until you’ve bathed.”
It was as though he hadn’t spoken. The newcomer ignored him completely as he got slowly to his feet. He was tall, well built and might have been young but it was difficult to gauge with grime all over his face. His clothes were filthy and spotted with blood, his hair so matted and greasy it was hard to know the colour. He hadn’t seen a razor in quite some time and it was impossible to tell where his hair ended and the straggly beard and moustache began. His eyes were dark in the candlelight and glinted with something which might have been intelligence, or danger but was just as likely a trick of the light. MacLeod hitched himself higher on his bunk.
“It appears we’ve been forced together as bunk mates so how about we get acquainted? My name’s Fergus MacLeod.”
Most people knew the name and it usually elicited some kind of reaction. MacLeod was certain this fellow had heard it plenty of times, given his reputation and current location but there was no flicker of recognition. There was no response at all actually, the man dropped heavily onto the edge of his bunk and stared round the room. MacLeod wondered if he was some kind of half-wit but made another effort to engage him, struggling to keep his voice polite.
“And you are?”
The dark eyes lingered on him for the briefest second then resumed their scrutiny of the walls. MacLeod was getting irritated but managed to force out a laugh.
“Yuma prison does tend to scare the panties off newcomers. I understand if you don’t feel like talking.”
The man’s gaze swung back and MacLeod finally had his full attention. None of his words had hit their target and the man didn’t seem remotely offended or provoked by his barbs. On the contrary he seemed amused and his mouth pulled up into an insolent smirk.
“You’re talking enough for us both, buddy but don’t get nervous on my account.”
His voice was a rough and deep, the words spoken boldly with a suggestion of menace. They both knew he’d made an effective parry but MacLeod pasted an affable smile onto his face.
“Since I’ve taken the trouble to introduce myself, would reciprocation be too much to hope for?”
The newcomer snorted his disdain. “A man like you should already have it.”
MacLeod leaned against the headboard of his bunk, feigning indifference but quietly reassured. His cellmate knew exactly who he was. He sighed dramatically.
“Not so long ago a prisoner with liquid assets might buy a guard’s co-operation, loosen his tongue and encourage him to turn a blind eye to certain proclivities. But Yuma’s no longer the party town it once was, I’m sorry to say. Six months ago we were unfortunate enough to get a new governor; an insignificant tick from the Confederate army who can’t accept his team lost and let it twist him into a bitter, sadistic cock sucker. The first thing he did was fire the entire staff and replace them with his own minions. They’re mostly army tossers, just like him and there’s no getting through to them.”
“How long you been here, MacLeod?”
The newcomer sounded interested but MacLeod wasn’t about to give up any personal information until he got something substantial in return.
“Long enough to know and it’s not just the guards getting tight lipped either. The punishments are preposterous and there’s all kinds of new rules to break. Once upon a time you’d get a few days in the dark cells for stepping out of line, now there’s whippings, beatings and if a prisoner tries to escape they shoot to kill.”
The man was smirking again. “Is that why you’re still here?”
MacLeod was offended and about to deliver a piece of his mind something out in the yard alerted his sixth sense. He got up to investigate and swore as pain needled down his back and leg. He limped to the door, pulled the blanket aside and peered out. Light was spilling from the door of the guardhouse, right across the exercise yard from his cell and a group of men were heading his way. He turned to his new companion.
“You’re about to get processed, mate. God only knows you could use that bath.”
The news had an effect on the man. He seemed decidedly edgy and MacLeod smiled thinly. “Are we frightened of a little soap and kerosene?”
The newcomer stood up and rummaged in the back of his pants. MacLeod watched with a grimace, nervous of what he was about to experience. To his surprise the man produced a half bottle of liquor and a fat roll of money.
“Where do I stash this?”
It was a demand rather than a question. MacLeod didn’t have time to ponder his audacity, how he’d managed to smuggle contraband into Yuma prison or how awful it might smell. He could hear footsteps getting close and he snatched the items from the man’s hands, stuffed them under his mattress then lay on top of the bunk, legs crossed and fingers laced behind his head.
Their owner was watching him, decidedly nonplussed. “You can help yourself to some hooch while I’m gone, but I know exactly how much money’s in that roll.”
MacLeod raised his eyebrows in mock offence. “Are you implying I’m a thief?”
The man shrugged. “Any other reason you’d be in Yuma prison?”
A key rattled and three armed guards came through the door. One was holding a lamp and MacLeod flinched as fierce light hit him right in the face. He knew them all. Two were old hands, tough, grizzled ex-soldiers who seldom spoke except to caution prisoners. The third, the lamp-bearer was a much younger man who’d arrived about a month ago. He was impossibly tall, lean as a whip and wore his hair long and shaggy. MacLeod knew him only as Campbell and from the way he slouched round the prison, it was clear he’d never set foot in the army. He was quiet and cagey to begin with but it hadn’t taken MacLeod long to strike up a dialogue.
With time, patience and persuasion, MacLeod had him running errands in exchange for cash. Campbell provided his meagre resources: candles, blankets, laudanum, specialised reading material and the odd quart of whisky. He also shared what scant information came into his possession. It was Campbell who’d spilled the beans on his new cellmate, an outlaw who’d led a notorious gang and currently had five thousand dollars on his head. He was wanted in a dozen states and territories for crimes which included armed robbery, gambling, cheating, rustling, murder and worse. Campbell either could not or would not provide the man’s identity.
MacLeod had been impressed by this description and as he watched his nameless cellmate staring contemptuously at the guards, he was acutely aware of the peril he might be in. The fellow might look like a bedraggled tramp but looks were deceiving and MacLeod had never been fooled by them. He was tough and smart enough to lead a gang of desperados, resourceful enough to evade capture for years and dangerous enough to be placed in the highest security cell Yuma Prison could muster. MacLeod knew with absolute certainty his bunkmate was going to be trouble.
Campbell stepped closer to the grimy newcomer, held up the lamp and wrinkled his nose.
“You smell worse than a sewer rat. You’re good and ready for that bath, aren’t you?”
It was only because MacLeod was looking directly at them that he saw what passed between them. The angle of the lamp prevented the other guards from noticing the prisoner give a slight nod and a wink. Campbell immediately grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards the cell door. The prisoner swore and pushed him roughly away.
“Keep your hands off me, you goddamned moose.”
MacLeod chuckled, because the name suited the lanky guard perfectly. A moment later the other guards were all over the newcomer. They pinioned his arms and hauled him outside, still struggling and cursing.
Campbell was pulling the cell door closed when MacLeod called to him.
“What’s his name?”
The guard frowned at him, puzzled.
“Losing your touch, MacLeod?”
MacLeod sat up on his bunk, feeling the bottle of liquor press into his buttocks.
“They haven’t told you his name? Is information like that above your pay grade, sonny?”
Campbell thought about that for a second then reacted predictably. His face split into a broad grin.
“You just met Dean Winchester and he’s one evil son of a bitch. I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.”