The Ten Per Cent Gang Read online

  The Ten Per Cent Gang

  Sheriff Wes Creed has suffered yet another disastrous day. Earlier, Clayton Bell’s bandit gang raided a cash shipment bound for Lincoln’s bank. And while Creed fruitlessly pursued the bandits, the vigilante organization, the Ten Per Cent gang, calmly tracked and reclaimed the stolen cash. And for their trouble, the vigilantes retained their usual fee – ten per cent of the cash.

  With the Ten Per Cent gang now threatening to enforce all justice in Lincoln, Creed realizes he has to slap them in jail, even if it means riding roughshod over every law in the land.

  So Creed has no choice but to forge an alliance with the only man who hates the Ten Per Cent gang as much as he does – Clayton Bell.

  The Ten Per Cent Gang

  I. J. Parnham

  McBain : Book 2

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First published in 2004 by Robert Hale Limited

  Copyright © 2004, 2015 by I. J. Parnham

  First Kindle Edition 2015

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  Published by Culbin Press.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter One

  The sheriff’s third gunshot was even closer. The lead whistled by only a few feet from Fletcher Grange’s right ear.

  While gripping the reins tightly in one hand, Fletcher fired a speculative shot over his shoulder, then thrust his gun into his belt and hunched forward in the saddle.

  Beside him, Hardy Newman glanced over his shoulder, too.

  Sheriff Wes Creed and Deputy Alan Fairborn were gaining on them.

  Hardy spurred his horse to even greater speed, sending up huge plumes of dust in his headlong dash across the plains towards a mesa ahead.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Hardy shouted.

  ‘They had a lot of time to make up,’ Fletcher shouted back. ‘Their horses are tired. We’ll break them.’

  Hardy nodded and concentrated on hard, fast riding.

  As they swung around the mesa, Hardy glanced back and sure enough, the chasing lawmen were out of firing range, the last mile having taken its inevitable toll on their straining mounts.

  Hardy and Fletcher allowed themselves a joyous whoop of delight and, by the time they swung out from the other side of the mesa, the following lawmen were slowing to a halt and they whooped some more.

  Even so, for the next two miles, both men frequently glanced back, but the lawmen’s pursuit had died. With their last obstacle resolved, they swung off the trail and headed for a rocky uprising.

  Closer to, a triangular tangle of gnarled trees appeared. Hardy and Fletcher pulled back on their reins and glanced around. They both saw the lines of hoof-prints heading towards the trees.

  The two men exchanged nods. With Fletcher ten paces back, Hardy edged his horse forward, his Colt drawn and ready.

  ‘Where are the horses?’ Hardy said.

  Dave Gordon should have left fresh horses for them here, so Fletcher considered the hoof-prints, which led behind the trees.

  ‘I reckon that idiot didn’t tether them properly.’

  ‘Then I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget.’

  Fletcher grunted his agreement, then pointed at a boulder to the right of the trees.

  Hardy narrowed his eyes and edged his horse forward two more paces. From behind the boulder a horse’s head swung into view.

  A smile spread across Hardy’s grim visage, then died. The horse had a rider – just the toe of his boot was visible to him.

  Hardy glanced back at Fletcher and mimed a knife slicing across his throat, then pointed at the horse.

  With slow stealth, Fletcher dismounted, then dashed to the other side of the boulder. He pressed his back to the rough stone and slipped his gun from his belt.

  ‘Is that you, Dave?’ Hardy shouted, holding his gun at arm’s length and aimed at the side of the boulder.

  The horse edged the shortest of paces forward, so Hardy tightened his finger on the trigger.

  Then hot fire punched into Hardy’s shoulder, the rifle blast echoing a fraction later. As Hardy plummeted from his horse, Fletcher slammed back against the boulder, a gunshot blasting into his arm. His gun flew end over end before it crashed into the earth.

  Hardy lay for a moment, his shoulder numb, but his gun had landed two yards before him. He pressed his head to the ground, the harsh rock grinding into his forehead.

  Then he leapt for the gun. Just as his left hand brushed the cold metal, a gunshot wheeled it away from him, a second shot spinning it far out of his reach.

  With a desperate glance, he searched out Fletcher, but Fletcher had slid to the ground, nursing his arm and staring behind Hardy with his mouth open in silent shock.

  From behind Hardy, steady footsteps approached, each step grating on Hardy’s frazzled nerves. Hardy shuffled round and looked up to face a black-clad figure, a hat pulled low and a kerchief hiding all but the clear blue eyes.

  Another man stalked out from behind the boulder, a slight breeze rustling his black jacket, a kerchief hiding his features, too.

  Hardy gulped. With a shaking hand, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

  ‘You again,’ he said.

  Chapter Two

  With their pursuit slowing with every stride, Sheriff Wes Creed and Deputy Alan Fairborn rode a mile out from the mesa, then slowed to a halt. They both rubbed their brows as they considered the deserted trail, the dispersing dust cloud ahead now the only remnant of their quarries’ passage.

  Thirty minutes earlier, Clayton Bell’s gang of raiders had ambushed the wagon riders, the band that delivered cash to the banks along a 400-mile stretch of the Kansas Pacific railroad. In a brief ambush that had cost them one man, they had stolen around $4,000.

  Creed reckoned that their type would probably view the cost as acceptable.

  Ten miles on, three other groups of raiders had divided the pursuing forces with decoy runs. Although from the desperate way the men he was following galloped away, Creed was convinced that these men actually had the cash.

  ‘Are you calling a stop?’ Fairborn asked.

  ‘For now.’ Creed lowered the reins and hunched forward in the saddle. ‘We head back to Lincoln and round up a posse.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Fairborn sighed. ‘We’re just wasting our time here.’

  As Creed nodded, the light wind carried a distant volley of gunfire from ahead. The blasts then echoed as they faded to nothing through the surrounding craggy mountains. He snorted.

  ‘It sounds like they’re celeb
rating.’ Creed sneered. ‘Or taunting us.’

  Another gunshot sounded, followed by two rapid shots.

  ‘Or perhaps something else.’ Fairborn peered ahead, seeing no movement other than the swirling dust. ‘I reckon we should find out what it is.’

  With two quick nods, the two lawmen headed off the trail and hurried into the plains. After the short burst of gunfire, the only sounds were the rapid patter of their horses’ hoofs.

  A mile further on they approached a clump of trees beneath a rocky uprising. Numerous hoof-prints headed into the trees.

  The lawmen slowed. They drew their guns, then one cautious pace at a time moved on.

  Twenty yards from the trees, a splash of blood lay on the ground. Another splash was beside a boulder.

  Creed glanced around and found more blood spotted in a trail that headed beyond the boulder.

  With their guns held out before them, they edged their horses on, but aside from hoof-prints and blood, they found no horses or other signs of the raiders.

  Then, fifty yards from the boulder, Fairborn saw a grizzled dead tree and from its branches, something dangled, swaying in the breeze that whistled across the plains.

  Edging his horse sideways, Fairborn rode to the tree, while Creed peered in all directions.

  Closer to, he confirmed that the dangling object was a saddle-bag. With a last glance around at the barren deserted plains, he holstered his gun and grabbed the bag. Then, with a swift gesture, he threw it open.

  He whistled through his teeth, then swung the bag over his saddle and trotted back to join Creed.

  ‘It’s wads of dollars.’ He tipped back his hat. ‘The money from the raid I’m guessing.’

  Creed frowned. ‘What are they doing? Why steal the cash, then leave it here for us to find?’

  Fairborn furrowed his brow, then slipped the bag open and withdrew a handful of bills. He riffled through them, then thrust them back inside.

  ‘I reckon I know what’s happening here.’ He sighed and slapped his saddle. ‘I reckon most of the cash is here, but some of it is missing.’

  Creed leaned to the side and spat on the ground.

  ‘The Ten Per Cent gang again,’ he said.

  Chapter Three

  In Lincoln’s bank, Sheriff Creed threw the saddle-bag on to the clerk’s desk.

  The balding clerk, Jonah Eckstein, peered into the bag and withdrew a bundle of bills. He riffled through them, his stubby fingers whirring.

  As he counted, Creed and Fairborn headed to the bank window and looked outside, until Jonah coughed and beckoned them to his desk.

  Creed stayed by the window and folded his arms.

  ‘How much did they steal?’ he asked.

  Jonah considered his notes, then referred to a ledger. He peered up over the top of his half-glasses.

  ‘Four hundred and ten dollars – exactly ten per cent of the transported funds.’ Jonah chuckled. ‘If you haven’t worked this out, I reckon I know who’s responsible. The Ten Per Cent gang is always precise. They’re never a percentage point out in either direction.’

  Creed sneered. ‘Nothing to admire there.’

  Jonah widened his smile, but as Creed continued to glare at him, he removed his glasses and polished them on his sleeve.

  ‘I suppose you might not see events from a clerk’s viewpoint, but I admire their precision.’

  Creed strode across the office. ‘Perhaps if they like the number ten that much, we can hang them precisely ten times.’

  Fairborn joined Creed and laughed. ‘Or bring them in with precisely ten bullets in them.’

  Jonah swung his glasses back on his nose. ‘You have no reason to do that.’

  ‘We do,’ Fairborn snapped. ‘This is the third raid they’ve stopped in as many months.’

  ‘But you won’t act on the bank’s behalf. We aren’t pressing charges.’

  ‘What?’ Fairborn and Creed said together.

  Jonah shuffled back on his chair. ‘Transporting funds incurs plenty of expenses and ten per cent is a reasonable fee for recovering the cash from the clutches of Clayton Bell and his beastly raiders.’

  ‘Those precise, fee-taking men are outlaws.’ Creed swept the empty saddle-bag to the floor. ‘We’ll bring them in.’

  ‘The bank has no problem with them. The matter is closed.’

  Creed leaned on the desk, glaring into Jonah’s eyes. The clerk fiddled with his necktie, but when Creed still glared at him, he lowered his head.

  Creed patted his fist against his thigh, then swirled round and strode to the door.

  ‘You can’t accept what they did,’ Fairborn said. ‘They still stole four hundred dollars from you and that’s a crime even if you want to dismiss it as a delivery charge.’

  Jonah waggled a stubby finger. ‘They stole four hundred and ten dollars, and bounty hunters would charge a lot more to track down Bell’s gang and with no assurance of recovering the stolen money.’

  Fairborn snorted. ‘We lawmen don’t charge you anything.’

  ‘Yes, but you never recover anything either.’ Jonah smirked, then glanced away.

  Fairborn glared at the clerk’s bald spot, then with an angry oath, turned and headed to the door.

  ‘Yet,’ he said, joining Creed.

  ‘Wait, Deputy.’ Jonah uttered a short laugh, then masked it with a cough. ‘Perhaps the bank might be interested in you finding the Ten Per Cent gang, after all.’

  By the door, Fairborn turned. ‘I’m glad you’re seeing sense.’

  ‘A big delivery passes through the county next month – perhaps fifty thousand dollars – and we’d like it to reach Denver safely. If we could hire the Ten Per Cent gang to defend it, the bank might be prepared to pay ten per cent for their services.’

  With his eyebrows raised, Fairborn glared back. Then a sly smile spread across Jonah’s face.

  Fairborn snorted and grabbed the door. Outside, he took deep breaths and opened and closed his fists as he suppressed his anger. Creed joined him, his face as red as Fairborn’s felt.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Fairborn said. ‘The only person I hate more than Bell or the leader of the Ten Per Cent gang now is that smug clerk.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Creed said. ‘Somehow, I’m going to wipe that irritating grin off his face.’

  * * *

  Twenty miles out of Lincoln, high in the hills, Nat McBain and Spenser O’Connor huddled around their small fire.

  A night chill had descended and a fierce wind was whipping the flames, but neither man wanted to risk attracting attention with a larger fire, preferring to huddle in his blanket instead.

  Nat finished fingering a pile of bills and leaned back, smiling.

  ‘How much?’ Spenser asked.

  Nat shuffled the bills into a neat pile. ‘Four hundred and ten dollars – before expenses.’

  Spenser snorted. ‘Are you saying that you took ten dollars too much?’

  ‘Nope. Four thousand one hundred dollars was in the saddle-bag.’

  ‘You’re precise.’

  Nat shrugged. ‘We have our name to live up to.’

  ‘How much does that make in all?’

  Nat rubbed his forehead. ‘After expenses, fifty dollars short of a thousand – not bad for three months’ work.’

  Spenser tapped his fingers, mouthing numbers. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders more tightly and sneered.

  ‘That means we’ve recovered nearly fifteen thousand dollars.’

  Nat swung his blanket across his chest so that it tented around him.

  ‘It does.’

  ‘At this rate, we won’t get enough money before our luck runs out.’ Spenser slipped a hand from his blanket to rub his chin. He smiled, his teeth bright in the fire’s glow. ‘I have an idea to speed things up.’

  Nat blew out his cheeks and sighed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We rename ourselves the Twenty Per Cent gang.’ Spenser chuckled. ‘Or even better we—’

  ‘I can s
ee where you’re going with this.’ Nat raised a hand. ‘We aren’t doing that. Ten per cent is the perfect amount to take. Any more and someone will take exception to the size of our cut, any less and it isn’t worth our while.’

  Spenser shook his head. ‘It’s an old argument but I still reckon leaving anything is a bad idea.’

  Nat waved the pile of bills at Spenser. ‘Taking everything is the bad idea. I’ve got no desire to be a wanted man for the rest of my life.’

  Spenser blew on his hands, then held them out to the fire.

  ‘And I’ve got no desire to end up dead. Every time we raid outlaws and return most of the cash, we take chances from every angle. Soon, our luck will run out.’

  ‘It doesn’t need to last for long. We just need two or maybe three more raids and we’ll have enough cash to do anything we want.’

  For long moments Spenser glared at Nat, then hugged his knees.

  Chapter Four

  A dozen whiskeys into the evening, Sheriff Creed slumped even further over the bar. All around him, cowboys talked and laughed as they enjoyed their night out in the saloon.

  Creed felt that every laugh was at his expense, that every argument concerned his failure to catch the vigilantes, and that every snatch of overheard conversation included the word ‘ten’.

  As Fairborn headed into the saloon and joined him at the bar, Creed poured himself another drink, then pushed his half-empty whiskey bottle to his deputy.

  Fairborn poured himself a glassful and leaned on the bar. He fingered the glass as he considered Creed.

  ‘Have you cheered up yet?’

  Creed gulped his whiskey and blew out his cheeks.

  ‘Nope, but I’ve drawn up a list of people I’m seeing on the day we slap the Ten Per Cent gang behind bars.’

  Fairborn knocked back half of his whiskey. ‘I’ve been thinking about them. I reckon that clerk might not be speaking for his bank. If we can talk to someone more senior than him, he might be annoyed enough to press charges.’