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 them down and reclaimed the stolen cash. And for their trouble the vigilantes retained their usual fee — ten per cent of the loot.

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 he has to ride 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 sheriff's third gunshot was even closer.

The lead whistled by only scant 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 huge mesa ahead.

'What 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 leading towards the trees.

The two men glanced at each other and shared a nod. With Fletcher ten paces back, Hardy edged his horse towards the trees, his Colt pulled and ready.

'Where are the horses?' Hardy muttered.

Dave Gordon should have left fresh horses for them here.

Fletcher glanced at 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.' Hardy clenched a fist beside his neck and mimed a noose tightening.

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

Hardy turned. He 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.

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

With slow stealth, Fletcher slipped from his horse, 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.

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 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 muttered.

When I was giving Yates's Dilemma a final polish, I started worrying about the phrase ten per cent.

Should that be ten per cent, ten percent or ten per-cent?

As a writer I'm supposed to know these things, but because I don't, I'm always worrying about such matters.

Anyhow, I looked through my previous manuscripts to see if I'd used the word percent before and to see how my publisher had dealt with it. And I discovered that I had used the phrase before. Worse, to my embarassment, I had used it a lot of times before. In fact, in pretty much every western I'd written, at some point a character would agree to help somebody else for a cut of the loot.

And the cut they demanded was always ten per cent.

And so to exorcise this mistake and ensure I never used that phrase again, I decided to write a novel in which the characters are always keen to receive a cut of any deal they get involved in. And their cut is always ten per cent.