The Ten Per Cent Gang

by I. J. Parnham

  ‘You’re right. Information about the bogus cash shipment did leak out. It just surprises me that it took you so long to figure out what was always obvious to me.’

  Creed pushed up from the desk. With his eyebrows raised, he walked in a circle, patting a fist against his thigh. When he’d completed a full circle, he set his hands on his hips.

  ‘Go on, toad. Spell it out.’

  Jonah leaned back in his chair, a smug grin plastered across his chubby face.

  ‘The wagon riders deliver money at different times using different methods on different routes, yet every so often they get raided. How does that happen?’

  Creed shrugged. ‘I guess lookouts see them coming.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Jonah said adopting a lecturing tone. ‘But Bell only raids the largest shipments and that implies he has inside information on their size.’

  Fairborn pushed from the wall and moved to Creed’s side.

  ‘You know about their size beforehand,’ he mused.

  Jonah shook his head. ‘I can see you want me to be the cause of your troubles, but I reckon I’ve understood what’s happening here. The Ten Per Cent gang get information from Bell’s gang, and Bell’s gang get information from the wagon riders.’

  ‘You smug varmint,’ Creed snapped. With a long swipe, he hurled the papers from Jonah’s desk. As they fluttered to the floor, he waved a fist. ‘Information may leak out from many places, but it also leaks from you. What did you tell the Ten Per Cent gang?’

  Jonah dropped to his knees. He rescued the nearest sheet of paper, but Creed stormed around the desk and dragged him from the floor by his collar. He raised him until the small man stood on tiptoes.

  ‘Someone came to see me,’ Jonah whined, his shoulders slumping in the sheriff’s grip. ‘He wanted to know about the last shipment.’

  Creed hoisted Jonah a fraction higher, then snorted and threw him to the floor.

  ‘Your information caused me a whole mess of problems.’

  ‘It didn’t.’ Jonah dropped to his knees, sweat beading his brow. ‘I just confirmed what he already knew. I’d never do anything that could get people hurt. I’ve got ethics.’

  ‘You’ve got ethics! I’ll give you . . .’ Creed raised his fist, but as Jonah hurled his arms above his head, he lowered it. ‘You aren’t worth it.’

  Creed turned away, sneering, letting Fairborn walk past him.

  ‘What did this person look like?’ Fairborn asked.

  Jonah lowered his arms and bustled across the floor, collecting the strewn paper.

  ‘I didn’t see him. He stayed in the shadows.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘I do,’ Creed said with a snort. ‘This toad isn’t interested in what someone looks like. He only looks at their money.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Jonah said. He rescued the last of his paper and deposited the bundle on his desk.

  With deliberate paces, Creed walked across the office. He rounded the desk, forcing Jonah to back away until he slammed into the wall. With a swift gesture, he raised his hand, Jonah cringing, but he just tipped back his hat.

  ‘Tell me, toad, since the last raid, has your contact seen you again?’

  Jonah’s gaze darted around the office, finding Fairborn, who folded his arms. Jonah lowered his head.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  Creed lifted on his heels so that he stared straight down on the top of Jonah’s balding pate.

  ‘Did he ask about the next shipment?’

  Jonah wiped a layer of sweat from his brow. ‘Yeah, but like I said, I’ve got ethics. I wouldn’t do anything that could cause harm. He already knew it’d be a big one, and that it’d be by train on the twentieth. He was just confirming facts and—’

  ‘Quit your excuses.’ With the back of his hand, Creed slapped Jonah’s shoulder, the minor blow still sending Jonah reeling. ‘You’re a toad, and that’s official.’

  Creed walked across the office. With a snorted chuckle, he batted the papers from Jonah’s desk again and with Fairborn strode outside.

  On the boardwalk, both men leaned on the bank wall.

  ‘Can you trust anything that toad’s just told us?’ Fairborn asked, breaking the irritated silence.

  ‘Aside from you, I’m trusting nobody at the moment.’ Creed turned to Fairborn. ‘I want to continue relying on your impartial advice, so I want you to do what a lawman does – investigate. We reckon that the members of the Ten Per Cent gang are ex-lawmen. Check that out and see where it leads you.’

  ‘If I don’t have to deal with the likes of Jonah Eckstein, that’s the best plan you’ve had so far.’ Fairborn smiled. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m dealing with the toads.’ Creed tipped his hat and set off down the main drag.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the third of the month, Creed visited Turner Galley’s smithy. Turner was hammering a sheet of metal flat across his bench.

  ‘What do you want?’ Turner said, looking up from his bench. He threw down the hammer.

  ‘I’m visiting my old friend.’

  While keeping his gaze on Creed, Turner edged to his brazier. He extracted a glowing poker and held it before him.

  ‘Your last visit nearly cost me my life.’ Turner snorted and poked at the fire. ‘It still might. So whatever you want me to do, I’m not interested. Go, and this time, don’t return.’

  Creed strode a long pace into the room, so Turner slipped out his poker again. The end glowed deep red as he held it at arm’s length.

  Creed glanced at the poker and smiled. ‘This time, I’ll have to return to take delivery of the something you’ll build for me.’

  Turner glanced away. With a shake of his head, he thrust the poker into the fire.

  ‘You’re not listening to me. I’m not doing any favors for you.’

  ‘No favors, just business.’ Creed raised his eyebrows. ‘And for business, I’ll pay half now, half on completion.’

  Turner’s gaze darted from the sheriff to the fire as he rubbed his chin. Then he shrugged and headed back to his bench.

  ‘What have you got in mind?’

  Creed extracted a slip of paper from his pocket. He moved to the bench and spread it out.

  Turner edged around the bench to join Creed and peer at the paper. With a dirty finger, he traced over Creed’s diagram.

  ‘For this, one hundred dollars and two months to make it.’

  Creed dragged the paper from under Turner’s grip.

  ‘Twenty-five dollars and you have sixteen days.’

  Turner snatched back the paper. ‘Seventy-five and I’ll meet your deadline.’

  ‘Twenty-five, plus another twenty-five to buy your discretion. This deal is private between you and me.’

  Turner rubbed a shaking hand through his hair.

  ‘If you’re talking about me seeing Bell again, that won’t happen. I don’t ever want to see him again.’

  Creed chuckled. ‘In that case, I don’t need to pay the extra twenty-five.’

  Turner winced. ‘People always say I talk too much.’

  * * *

  Creed strolled into his office, whistling.

  Fairborn looked up from his desk. He grinned and waggled a sheet of paper when he saw that Creed was smiling with more than just his mouth for the first time in months.

  ‘What have you found?’ Creed asked.

  ‘Nothing confirmed.’ Fairborn placed the paper on his desk and turned it round. ‘But I have a theory.’

  Creed leaned down to read Fairborn’s notes. ‘Deputy Nathaniel McBain. You reckon he’s our man?’

  ‘He could be. He’s fair-haired, like one of the Ten Per Cent gang.’

  ‘You’ll need more than that to convince me.’

  ‘I have more. He worked for Sheriff Cassidy Yates.’ Fairborn glanced at his notes. ‘He now works in Monotony.’

  ‘Yates, Yates?’ Creed said, rubbing his chin. ‘Did he work with Marshal Devine?’

&nbs
p; ‘Yup.’

  Creed whistled through his teeth. ‘Now there’s a tough lawman. If our man is McBain and some of Devine rubbed off on him, he’ll take some beating. Why do you think it’s him?’

  ‘His father, Brett McBain, was an outlaw. He died during a raid on the wagon riders. Perhaps Nathaniel has a score to settle.’

  ‘I like the sound of this. Go on.’

  ‘Nathaniel was a deputy lawman for a year, but he handed in his badge. His excuse was the poor pay.’ Fairborn looked up and licked his lips.

  ‘That isn’t a valid reason.’

  Both men laughed as Creed sat on the edge of the desk.

  ‘McBain joined a bounty hunter, Clifford Trantor, to track down Kirk Morton, the leader of an outlaw gang that specialized in train raids. They all more or less wiped each other out along with the sheriff of Harmony. As everybody was double-crossing each other, nobody followed up the lawman’s death too much.’

  ‘So far, so believable.’

  Fairborn leaned back in his chair. ‘Nathaniel left Harmony with someone who resembled one of Kirk’s men, Spenser O’Connor, even though they’d supposedly hung Spenser in Beaver Ridge jail a week earlier, but I reckon someone did something sneaky and he is Spenser.’ Fairborn raised his eyebrows. ‘He isn’t the only member of Kirk Morton’s gang that escaped. Two of his men are now working for Bell.’

  ‘Why does that make you think Spenser is our man?’

  ‘Because information is sneaking out from Bell’s gang and it might be passing between old friends.’ Fairborn held out a slip of paper.

  Creed took the paper and read the two names on it.

  ‘This sounds plausible. We have a lawman who’s more interested in the pay than the law. He teams up with an outlaw who has no qualms about using his own kind.’ Creed shuffled off the desk. ‘The best thing about it is, they’re the kind of men we can defeat.’

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘I haven’t got all the details.’ Creed headed to the window. With his arms folded, he looked outside where dusk was shrouding Lincoln. ‘I can picture what two such men are thinking right now. In each raid they’ve acted with principles and not killed – that’d be our ex-lawman Nathaniel’s idea. The double-crossing within Bell’s gang and buying information from toads like Jonah Eckstein will be Spenser’s contribution.’

  Fairborn stood and joined Creed at the window. ‘How does knowing that help?’

  Creed unfolded his arms, his shoulders relaxed. He patted Fairborn arm.

  ‘Imagine you’re Nathaniel. You’re a decent lawman, but your colleague is as sneaky as they come.’

  ‘That’d take some imagining,’ Fairborn mused. He glanced at Creed and smiled.

  ‘You can still try.’ Creed winked.

  Fairborn looked through the window, nodding to himself.

  ‘I reckon they argue a lot. Their plan to keep just ten per cent is Nathaniel’s idea, but Spenser isn’t happy with it.’

  ‘Now you’re thinking.’

  Fairborn pressed his cheek to the window to peer out of town where the distant mountains were outlined against the darkening sky.

  ‘As we speak, they’re sitting around a camp-fire discussing how they’ll best Bell next time, except Spenser is getting unhappy. He hates the ten per cent return rule. He says they should keep it all and take their chances.’

  ‘Each time, Nathaniel talks him down.’

  ‘And each time, Spenser gets a little closer to taking Nathaniel on, but Nathaniel’s stronger than Spenser, so Spenser’s waiting for the right moment.’ Fairborn leaned back against the window frame. ‘So we just need to know what it’ll take to make Spenser face up to Nathaniel.’

  Creed turned from the window and patted Fairborn’s back.

  ‘We both know what that is and when it’s coming.’

  * * *

  In the hills above Lincoln, Nat McBain and Spenser O’Connor sat around their spluttering camp-fire.

  Both men sat on opposite sides of the fire, glaring at each other through the flames, the weak fire warming them less than their long-festering argument.

  ‘That plan won’t work,’ Nat said, slamming his fist into his other palm.

  ‘It will,’ Spenser snapped, jumping to his feet.

  ‘Quit arguing. We stick to what’s worked in the past.’

  ‘I’ve got no desire to end up dead.’ Spenser placed his hands on his hips. ‘I reckon it’s the same for you.’

  Nat glared at Spenser until the other man sat.

  ‘Your plan will get us there even faster than anything else we might do.’ Nat rolled on to his haunches and stoked the fire. ‘This discussion is closed. We aren’t doing that.’

  Spenser snarled. Then, with an angry lunge, he spat into the fire and rolled on to his back to stare at the stars.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At sundown on the nineteenth of the month, Creed rode a borrowed cart into Lincoln after his short trip to Turner’s smithy. This afternoon, Turner had completed Creed’s work and exactly as Creed had specified.

  Creed jumped from the cart and hurried into the bank. Two minutes later, he emerged.

  In a large hand, he clutched Jonah Eckstein’s collar and dragged him outside with his legs whirling. Beside the cart, Creed released his grip and pointed at the five foot by four foot by three foot metal strongbox on the back.

  ‘Impressed?’ Creed vaulted on to the cart and patted the side of the box, a satisfyingly solid noise returning. ‘I reckon that Turner did a good job here for once in his worthless existence.’

  ‘I reckon he did.’ Jonah shrugged his collar straight and leaned over the side of the cart to pat the box, too. ‘How much did you pay for it?’

  Creed grinned. ‘Twenty-five dollars.’

  A huge smile emerged, which Jonah wiped away with a rub of his hand.

  ‘Turner beat you there.’

  Creed shook his head. ‘I did some mighty fine negotiating. I had to knock him down from one hundred.’

  Jonah licked his lips. ‘I’d have got it for less, perhaps for free.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Under the promise that he’d be the first person the other banks would hire when they requested similar boxes. I’d hint the total order might be for anything up to fifty boxes.’

  ‘But there are no further orders . . .’ Creed contemplated Jonah’s smug grin. ‘I was right to see you. You’re just the sort of sneaky toad I need.’ Creed jumped down from the cart. ‘I hope you like your new strongbox. Turner built it to last. It’ll make a fine addition to your bank. Sorry I couldn’t get it any cheaper than twenty-five dollars.’

  ‘I’ve got a safe and it’s better than . . .’ Jonah sighed as Creed widened his eyes. ‘It’s a fine box. I’ll get your twenty-five dollars.’

  Jonah turned to enter the bank, but Creed grabbed his arm and swung him back.

  ‘I don’t need the money yet. You can pay when we return.’

  ‘Return from where?’

  ‘From ensuring that one cash delivery gets through the county safely.’

  Jonah snorted. ‘You reckon that box will help?’

  Creed removed his hand and wiped it on his jacket.

  ‘That and some help from a sneaky toad like you.’

  * * *

  With the strongbox on the cart behind him, the grinning sheriff and the glum Jonah traveled through the night to Restitution, one hundred miles beyond the Marren County border.

  They headed for the train station and gathered a few hours’ sleep while they waited for the train to Denver.

  An hour after dawn, the whistle from the approaching train awoke them as it arrived, on time. The train had three passenger cars, each half-full, and two freight cars with long doors on either side.

  Horses bustled in the car nearest the engine. The wagon riders had commandeered the second car, their dark-blue jackets appearing even darker in the sallow early-morning light.

  They either jumped down on to the plat
form to flank the long front door, or sat with their legs dangling outside. Each man watched the movements of the scattered people on the platform, their rifles rested across their laps or swung up on a shoulder.

  Creed ordered a porter to load the strongbox on to the first passenger car. Jonah followed on behind, but Creed grabbed his shoulder and turned him towards the wagon riders’ car.

  ‘It’s time for you to prove your worth,’ Creed said. He patted Jonah’s shoulder and urged him forward.

  With a deep sigh, Jonah walked up to the lead wagon rider, Drago Holbeck, and smiled.

  ‘What do you want?’ Drago said, drawing himself up to his considerable height.

  ‘That depends on how amenable you are,’ Jonah said, backing away a pace when Drago loomed over him. ‘We humbly request that—’

  Creed brushed Jonah aside and snorted.

  ‘He means that we’re helping you guard this shipment,’ he said.

  Drago glanced at Creed’s star and sneered.

  ‘We don’t need help from a lawman.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You aren’t even Sheriff Wilson.’ Drago looked over Creed’s shoulder at the station clock. ‘But I have enough time before the train leaves to see what he has to say about you trying to act in his territory.’

  ‘There’s no need. I’m only here to help you.’

  Drago spat a large gob of spit on the platform, inches from Creed’s boots. He looked him up and down and chuckled without humor.

  ‘I don’t need your help .’

  Creed rolled his shoulders to stand as tall as possible. Still, he was a half a head smaller than Drago was.

  ‘I reckon you do. You’ve already had more than one shipment raided in my county, and I don’t want another mishap occurring.’

  Drago nodded. ‘So you’re Sheriff Creed, the good-for-nothing varmint who wasted my time delivering nothing just so nothing much could happen. Or as they’re saying about you – ninety percent alcohol, ten per cent lawman.’

  Creed gritted his teeth. ‘Perhaps, but that’ll change when this shipment gets through safely.’

  ‘That’ll be because of the diligence of my men and not because of any help from you.’