The Ten Per Cent Gang Read online

With an outstretched finger, Creed tipped back his hat.

  ‘That might work, but I’ve been thinking along the same lines, and I reckon the man who is the most annoyed with them is Clayton Bell. If you can figure out what charges he might press, we might have a reason to go after them.’ Creed laughed, the sound hollow.

  Fairborn matched the grim humor with a low snort.

  ‘It seems we’ll just have to wait until there’s another raid.’

  ‘And we’ll be behind Bell’s raiders and even further behind the Ten Per Cent gang.’ Creed glared around the bustling saloon. ‘And everyone from that clerk to these nobodies will just reckon we’re even bigger idiots.’

  Fairborn gulped down his drink and poured another.

  ‘Not everyone’s mocking us like Jonah Eckstein did.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it just seems that . . .’ Creed glanced at a huddle of cowboys by the wall. He’d distinctly heard one of them say ‘ten’ then laugh.

  ‘Forget it. You know how saloon talk starts. The Ten Per Cent gang is the latest novelty, but everybody’s more excited by the mystery of who they are and what they’ll do next. They aren’t saying we’re at fault.’

  Creed snorted and pointed across the saloon. Fairborn followed his gaze.

  Turner Galley was heading towards them with a lively grin on his face and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his hand. Turner eyed Creed, then slipped the bottle on to the bar.

  ‘You’re looking mighty down this evening, Sheriff,’ he said, tipping back his hat with a grimed finger.

  Creed nodded. ‘I’ve got plenty of problems.’

  ‘Then I’ve got me a solution.’ Turner wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but it didn’t remove the grin. ‘This here Ten Per Cent gang is getting to all the outlaws before you do, right?’

  Creed contemplated his glass, then leaned back on the bar.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So why not deputize them? Then you’ll have some of the finest lawmen around under your control, and you can take all the glory.’

  Turner threw back his head and guffawed, slapping his stomach and stamping his feet as he exaggerated his mirth. Accompanying chortles rippled across the back of the saloon.

  Creed sneered. ‘You’re not funny.’

  Turner slapped his knee. ‘And you’re no use as a lawman.’

  In a large gulp Creed downed the remnants of his whiskey and pushed from the bar. He raised a fist.

  ‘Take that back.’

  Turner’s grin disappeared. ‘I didn’t mean anything by that, Sheriff. I was just jesting you.’

  As Creed glared at Turner, Fairborn patted his shoulder.

  ‘Ignore him,’ he said. ‘He’s right. Turner’s too stupid to mean anything by that.’

  ‘Hey,’ Turner whined.

  ‘Then he shouldn’t be jesting me.’ Creed hitched his gunbelt higher. ‘So I want an apology.’

  Turner nodded, the start of another grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Perhaps I will.’ Turner pointed at the bottle he’d placed on the bar. ‘To show how sorry I am, I’ll leave you the rest of my bottle of whiskey.’

  Creed nodded. ‘That might just do it.’

  Turner shook the bottle and held it up to the light. He licked his lips and glanced over his shoulder, receiving a few chortles from his companions.

  ‘I thought you’d appreciate that. It looks like there’s ten per cent left in the bottle.’ He chuckled, then grinned wider as Creed snorted.

  Creed glanced at Fairborn, then with a backhanded lunge, slapped Turner’s cheek.

  The blow spun Turner, but on the second roll, he grabbed the bar and stopped himself falling. As his drinking partners shouted encouragement, he righted himself and rolled his shoulders, then charged Creed, flailing his fists.

  Creed deflected the first two blows, then punched Turner deep in the guts. Turner rolled with the blow and staggered back a pace, but then stood his ground.

  Two of his drinking buddies scraped back their chairs, so Fairborn strode from the bar and faced them, his hand resting on his gunbelt and the calmest of smiles on his face.

  With a few narrowed-eyed glances at each other, the men shuffled back behind their tables.

  By the bar, Turner spat on his right fist and weighed in with a long round-armed blow, but Creed ducked under it and when he rose, he delivered a firm uppercut to Turner’s chin with the flat of his hand.

  Turner’s head snapped back as he staggered a pace, flailing his arms as he fought to stay upright. He crashed into a table, scattering glasses, and leaned down, regaining his breath.

  He shook his head and turned, but Creed had advanced on him.

  With the back of his hand, Creed delivered a slap to Turner’s cheek that rocked him one way, and a firmer blow to his jaw with his left hand that knocked him the other way.

  This time, Turner tumbled to the floor and lay rubbing his jaw. Creed stood over him, his fists raised and his eyes bright.

  ‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘I’m just starting to get your jokes. Once I’ve knocked you down ten more times I might start laughing.’

  Turner pushed to his knees. With his head lolling, he staggered to his feet only to receive another solid blow to the jaw that knocked him flat.

  Creed loomed over him, but Turner’s head rocked back. Creed spun round to place his back to the bar.

  ‘Anybody else want to jest me,’ he roared, ‘because I’m in the mood for knocking a few smiles into oblivion.’

  Most people turned their backs and joined their colleagues in animated conversation. The rest shook their heads and returned to contemplating their drinks.

  Creed kicked Turner in the side, receiving a groan.

  ‘Then get up, so I can knock you down again,’ Creed muttered.

  Fairborn moved to Creed’s side.

  ‘That’s enough,’ he said, laying a hand on Creed’s shoulder. ‘You’ve taught Turner the lesson he needed.’

  Creed flinched from Fairborn’s hand and strode over Turner’s prone form to the bar. He grabbed Turner’s whiskey bottle, knocked back half the contents, then thrust his legs wide apart and with his eyes blazing, glared at each person in the saloon in turn.

  ‘I’m your lawman and nobody jests me,’ he shouted.

  ‘That’s enough, Sheriff,’ the bartender said, ambling down the bar. ‘This isn’t you speaking, and I reckon in the morning you’ll know that, too.’

  ‘That some kind of joke?’ Creed snapped. He swung round to face the bartender.

  ‘Nobody here is looking for trouble but you.’

  Creed gulped back the last of the whiskey from the bottle, then threw it over his shoulder. As the bottle clattered to a halt in the corner of the saloon, he wiped his mouth and slammed a fist on the bar.

  ‘The only thing I’m looking for is another drink.’

  Fairborn shook his head and patted Creed’s shoulder.

  ‘Wes, I reckon you’ve had enough. A good—’

  ‘I haven’t had enough.’ Creed waved his arms above his head. The gesture lurched him sideways so that he had to throw out a leg to avoid falling.

  ‘Get him out,’ the bartender said to Fairborn. ‘He isn’t drinking any more in here tonight, or any other night until his mood’s improved.’

  As Creed muttered to himself, Fairborn took his elbow and dragged him back a pace, but Creed shrugged from Fairborn’s grip and lurched back to the bar. He grabbed a whiskey bottle from the bar and with a last glare around the saloon, wove a snaking route outside.

  Fairborn mouthed an apology to the bartender, receiving a nod in return, and followed Creed. But he stopped in the doorway and watched Creed stagger away, throwing short punches at imaginary opponents.

  With a sigh, Fairborn strode back into the saloon and joined the two men who were checking on Turner.

  Chapter Five

  An hour into the cold morning, Sheriff Creed faced his first visitor of the day, Mayor Lynch.<
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  Sat behind his desk in the sheriff’s office, Creed nursed a strong coffee and a pounding headache. The mayor had already refused his offer of the former and his views on last night’s incident in the saloon weren’t helping the latter.

  ‘Drunken fighting in the saloon,’ Mayor Lynch shouted, slamming down his fist again and rattling Creed’s desk. The sound reverberated deep into Creed’s head. ‘I can accept that happening in my town, but not when it’s my lawmen who are starting it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that anything I can say will help,’ Creed said, pulling down his hat to shield his eyes from the harsh light.

  With an angry lunge, Lynch knocked his hat off. ‘One thing will help.’

  Creed glanced at the hat on the floor, then folded his arms.

  ‘I know. I’ll bring in both Clayton Bell and the Ten Per Cent gang.’

  ‘Nope. That won’t impress me.’ Lynch leaned on Creed’s desk, shaking his head. ‘Throwing your star on this desk will impress me. Then I can get a decent lawman in instead, who will catch Bell and won’t start fights in saloons.’

  ‘I’m not resigning, but I promise you I will bring in the outlaws.’ Creed met Lynch’s gaze, then rubbed his raw eyes and lowered his head. ‘And I won’t start any more fights.’

  ‘You’re right. You won’t start any more fights. Because if you do, I won’t wait for you to resign.’

  Creed looked up, his eyes blazing, his flash of apologizing forgotten.

  ‘You can’t run me out of office. I’m a democratically—’

  ‘I can’t, but I’ve had a dozen irate townsfolk complaining about you already today. One more brawl and I reckon they’ll knock down your door and demand that you leave. I’ll be with them.’ Mayor Lynch glared at Creed, then stormed across the office. He stamped his feet as he halted in the doorway and turned to Fairborn. ‘Don’t think you’ll be anyone’s next choice for sheriff. Most people think you’re as bad as Creed is.’

  ‘They’re wrong,’ Fairborn snapped. ‘I’m just as good as Creed is.’ He sneered at Lynch. ‘And that’s twice the man you’ll ever be.’

  Lynch snorted, then strode through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

  ‘Thanks for the support,’ Creed said.

  Fairborn walked across the office to stand before Creed’s desk.

  ‘As your deputy, I’ll support you, like I’ve always done. As your friend, I’ll tell you that Mayor Lynch was right. Sheriffs who start drunken brawls in saloons should throw in their stars.’

  Creed rolled from his chair and picked up his hat. He swung it on his head and strode to the stove to pour himself another strong coffee. He hunched over it, then looked up and nodded.

  ‘Aside from the mayor, you’re the only man I wouldn’t knock down for saying that.’ Creed gulped a mouthful of coffee and threw down the mug. ‘But you’re right. No more whiskey and no more taking it out on the wrong people.’

  ‘I’m mighty glad to hear that.’

  Creed punched his fist into his other hand. ‘It’s time we sorted out the real problem here.’

  ‘Are you talking about Clayton Bell or the Ten Per Cent gang?’

  ‘Bell isn’t the real problem. He’s just a lowlife. He’ll get himself killed or caught before too long, but the Ten Per Cent gang is sorting out every crime around here before we get close to it. They’re making us a laughing-stock.’

  Fairborn sighed. ‘And nobody but us cares that they take ten per cent.’

  ‘Somebody else does care.’ Creed licked his lips.

  ‘Who you got in mind?’

  Creed returned to his desk. He rummaged inside and extracted a sheet of paper. He slipped it into his pocket and patted the pocket.

  ‘My answer depends on how far you’re prepared to go to improve your life.’

  ‘You mean you’re planning on doing something that could get your star turned in?’

  By way of answer, Creed just raised his eyebrows.

  Chapter Six

  With Fairborn at his side, Creed headed into the bank. He threw the clerk’s office door open and strode inside.

  Jonah Eckstein looked up from his clear desk.

  ‘I’m a busy man, Sheriff.’ Jonah swiped away a layer of dust from his desk. ‘You can come back later.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Creed dragged a chair from the wall and slumped on it. ‘I’m here for your help. We’ve got far too many raids going on around here and they’re escalating.’

  ‘We’ve been over this.’ Jonah tapped his fingertips together. ‘The bank would prefer to receive everything we should, but faced with Bell’s gang stealing everything, we’ll gladly pay a small fee for the return of most of the funds.’

  ‘Perhaps, but outlaws get greedy.’ Creed scraped his chair closer to the desk and raised his eyebrows. ‘Soon those small fees will become larger fees.’

  ‘As the bank aren’t pressing charges, the Ten Per Cent gang aren’t outlaws.’

  Creed leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.

  ‘Anyone who flaunts the law is an outlaw.’

  ‘When drunken buffoons uphold the law, most people would prefer the outlaws,’ Jonah said.

  ‘I’m no drunken buffoon.’

  Fairborn moved to his side. ‘He isn’t. He just got down and he looked for someone to take it out on. If you don’t cooperate, I reckon you’ll be next.’

  Jonah sighed. ‘Let’s hear it, Sheriff, but make it quick. I’m a busy man.’

  Creed took a deep breath. ‘I want to set a trap for the Ten Per Cent gang, and I need information on when the wagon riders’ next shipment will be.’

  Jonah snorted. ‘I’m not giving you that.’

  Creed rocked forward as if to rise. ‘Then I’ll ask your boss.’

  ‘He won’t be interested, but if you want to waste your time, do it.’ With a slow shake of his head, Jonah pointed to the door. ‘Just don’t waste any more of my time telling me about it.’

  Creed slapped both his knees and stood. He walked in a circle, then took two paces towards the door. He stopped.

  ‘I won’t ask your boss about the next shipment. I’ll discuss something far more interesting.’ Creed turned and raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll ask him about your previous job.’

  From a drawer, Jonah bustled a handful of papers on to his desk.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Creed extracted a slip of paper from his pocket and walked over to Jonah’s desk. He slapped it down, letting a fuzzy image of a face peer out between his outstretched fingers.

  ‘It means that five years ago, you were a shipping agent in California, except your employment ceased when you was charged and sentenced for extortion, bribery, embezzlement and about another dozen crimes. If you haven’t worked this out, I reckon that won’t impress an employer of a clerk who has access to his money.’

  Jonah considered the poor impression of his own features, then sighed.

  ‘If you tell him, he’ll probably promote me. I only did what any shipping agent does to ensure the business operates effectively.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Creed slid the paper back into his pocket. ‘I’ll let him decide.’

  With exaggerated slowness Creed straightened, then paced to the door. He reached the door and stretched out a hand.

  ‘Wait,’ Jonah whispered.

  Creed stamped his feet as he halted. He rocked back and forth, then slowly turned.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, “wait”.’ Jonah edged his papers around his desk. ‘A trap is a minor clerical issue. There’s no need to involve anyone more senior than me.’

  Creed smiled. ‘I’m glad we have an understanding.’

  Chapter Seven

  Ten miles out of Lincoln, Turner Galley’s ramshackle smithy stood at the junction of the trails from Lincoln to Bear Creek and from Denver to Stone Creek.

  The early morning sun was glinting off Turner’s display of assorted metalwork as Creed and Fairborn dismounted. They
left their horses in a small corral at the side, then headed inside.

  From under a lowering brow, Turner flexed his jaw.

  ‘Last night isn’t worth remembering as far as I’m concerned, Sheriff,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to make things worse.’

  ‘We’re not here to talk about last night.’ Creed stood aside to let Fairborn follow him in. ‘We’re here to talk about trouble and how you’re at the center of most of it.’

  ‘You’re useless at tracking down outlaws so you hassle me again.’ Turner thrust a branding-iron into the brazier and moved two paces towards Creed, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Like I’ve told you a hundred times – I’m not a horse-thief.’

  ‘You sell horses, and you don’t always know where they come from.’

  ‘I’ve made a few mistakes in the past, and you know about them. I have a fine reputation now.’

  Creed snorted. With deliberate paces, he strode to a pile of metalwork, some rusty, some half-complete.

  Creed picked up a lever. He opened and closed it, confirming it was a wagon brake, then threw it on the pile of metalwork and selected another.

  ‘Aside from your reputation , you’ve got some real skill with metal-craft.’

  ‘I have and unless you’re looking to buy something, I’d be obliged if you’d leave.’ Turner pointed to the door. ‘And leave the door open when you go and let the stink out of here.’

  ‘I do have something in mind.’ Creed licked his lips. ‘I want to see Clayton Bell.’

  ‘You’ve already seen me twice about him, but as you didn’t listen before, I’ll tell you again – I’ve got no idea where he is and even if I did . . .’ Turner sneered at Creed.

  ‘This time it’s different. I’m not looking to arrest him. I just want to meet him.’

  Turner smiled. ‘After you hit me in the saloon last night, I reckoned you didn’t have a sense of humor. It seems I was wrong.’

  ‘I’m serious. It’s like this – you shoe horses, sell on a few. Metal is mighty hard to get hold of so you don’t ask too many questions aside from . . . can my customers pay? And I guess in some cases . . . will they kill me if I don’t help them? You know plenty about what goes on, but one word to me about what you know and you end up dead.’