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  Some Readers’ Comments on A Ton of Gold

  From the git-go, this story grabs your attention and hangs on to it through to the very end. I love books that I can't put down, and A Ton of Gold is that kind of book! Callan weaves a mystery from the past into an exciting present day story, complete with intriguing and feisty characters. Don't miss this great book!

  —S. Sehon

  Overcoming obstacles is a theme about which many authors write. Callan has perfected that art in this riveting tale of deceit and disappointment. Throw in a legend and the reader is hooked. A fast, entertaining read. I highly recommend it.

  —Book Editor

  A Ton of Gold is well-written, has a compelling storyline and believable characters. Highly recommended reading for adventure readers.

  —Elaine Faber

  A Ton of Gold captivates the reader and doesn't let go. Great plot, great characters, great dialogue. I would recommend it to anyone.

  —Paul Paris

  "A Ton of Gold" by James R. Callan hooked me on the first page of the Prologue and kept me eagerly turning the pages through the last word of the Epilogue. The plot was beyond intriguing and the characters were so well developed that I felt as if I knew them by the time I finished reading the book. Without giving away the story because you'll want to experience it for yourself, I will only say that it was a great read and I highly recommend it.

  —Patricia Gilgor

  James R. Callan has blended science and legend and come up with a fast-paced mystery that keeps one guessing until the end. A good read.

  —B. Norris

  I had read "Cleansed By Fire" and thought Mr. Callan couldn't write a better book. I was wrong! "A Ton of Gold" is one of those books that keep your attention from Prologue to Epilogue

  —sunnyreader

  A Ton of Gold

  A Crystal Moore Suspense, Book 1

  A Contemporary Suspense

  By

  James R. Callan

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, businesses, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, businesses or events is coincidental.

  Copyright: © 2013 by James R. Callan

  This book is dedicated to Jamie, Kelly, Kristi, and Diane.

  Could a parent be any luckier?

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  The Year: 1834

  Chapter 1

  The Year: 2012

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The Year: 1834

  Rip Johnson wrapped his large hands around the metal cup, capturing some of the heat from the steaming coffee. The first slender fingers of sunlight were beginning to poke through the tall pines, turning dust particles into floating bits of silver. A wispy fog drifted up from the small lake. Rip had just started toward the cliff for a better view of the lake below, when the sound of hoof beats stopped him. They were coming fast. Probably Billy hurrying back for some hot coffee. Rip had sent him out at first light to check the trail behind them.

  Billy Watkins raced his horse into the clearing, reining in his mount a short distance from Rip. The youngster slid off the sorrel gelding and ran the few feet to stand in front of his boss.

  “Injuns.” He paused to catch his breath. “Couple of miles back. Coming this way. Looking for us.”

  “How many?”

  “More ‘n forty.” Another deep breath. “In war paint.”

  “Armed?”

  “I seen lots of rifles. They was definitely following our tracks. They’re coming after us.” Worry covered the rider’s face as thickly as the dust did.

  For a few seconds, Rip stared down at the grass, just beginning to emerge from its winter slumber. Forty well-armed Indians were more than a match for his eight men. He looked to his left and his gaze fell on his son, pulling on his small boots.

  “You’re sure of the number?”

  “Yes sir. Counted thirty-eight. And there was more. But I decided to get the hell out of there ‘fore they saw me.”

  Better to ride, and fight another day. Rip shifted his focus to the wagon. Too heavily loaded to move fast. He looked past it only a second and made his decision. He wouldn’t leave it for the Indians. Half turning, he located his foreman.

  “Hank, lots of injuns coming. Get your men and push that wagon off the cliff, into the lake. Then mount up.”

  Hank cocked his head to one side, a frown on his face. “In the lake?”

  “Fast as you can. Then brush out the tracks. And I want us moving out in three minutes.” He pivoted in the other direction. “Cookie, put out that fire and load your stuff. Move it.”

  By now, his son was standing beside him. “What’s happening, Pa?”

  Rip laid his hand on the eight-year-old’s shoulder. “Injuns headed this way. I’ll saddle Blaze for you. Then I want you to ride north as fast as you can. Don’t wait for me; I’ll catch up with you.”

  “I’m hungry, Pa.”

  “Grab some jerky from Cookie. Get your slicker. Leave everything else.” Confusion creased the young boy’s face. “Move it, James Joseph.”

  In less than a minute, Rip had the small sorrel mare saddled. He picked up his son and put him astride the horse. “Don’t stop, unless you hear gun shots close. If you do, get off Blaze and find a hiding place for yourself. And don’t come out until I call you.”

  “But, Pa, how will you find me?”

  “I will.” Rip slapped the mare on its hindquarters and it galloped out of the clearing.

  The men were struggling with the wagon, its large wheels barely moving. “Come on, Cookie. Let’s give ‘em a hand.” The cook, well over two hundred fifty pounds, and Rip added their muscle to the task. Now, with all eight men straining, the wagon wheels turned a bit faster. It reached the point where the ground began to slope toward the cliff and the wagon began to mo
ve on its own, slowly picking up speed. The men gave a last push, then straightened up to watch the wagon tumble off the cliff. It splashed into the water, sending a ripple all the way across the narrow lake. In only seconds, the wagon and its heavy cargo sank out of sight.

  “Hank, brush out those tracks. Cookie, kick some dirt over those coals. Let’s saddle up and get out of here. The injuns can’t be far away.”

  It took only a minute for the men to gather bedding and saddle horses.

  “Keep a sharp eye. We’re outnumbered. We’ll come back later for the wagon. Let’s move.”

  With that, Rip spurred his horse and headed north, seven men close behind. They had not covered half a mile when Cookie caught the first bullet. His weight shifted left and his horse cut to the right, sending Cookie tumbling to the ground.

  Rip turned in time to see the cook hit the ground, blood spurting from a hole in his chest. Rip knew nothing could be done for the jovial man who sang while he cooked.

  Sounds of rifle shots overpowered the pounding of hooves. Each man bent forward, chin almost touching the horse’s mane, trying to provide the smallest target possible. Periodically, one would turn halfway and fire a pistol shot in the direction of the Indians, not with any hope of hitting one, but perhaps causing them to slow down a bit, lose a little ground.

  A bullet shattered the left knee of Hank’s buckskin mare. The horse went down and Hank flew over its head, landing hard on the ground, breaking his shoulder, leaving him an easy target.

  Within five minutes, only Rip and Billy were left. When no lead whizzed by for several minutes, Rip allowed himself to believe they had outrun the Indians. Even as the thought rested in his brain, a rifle slug tore through his heart. Rip was dead before he hit the ground.

  Billy panicked. He turned in the saddle, firing wildly at the pursuing Indians. Within a quarter mile, the eighteen year old son of a preacher lay dead on the dusty, east Texas trail.

  The Indians rounded up the white-man’s horses. As they started to leave, their leader noticed one of the horses was a small, sorrel mare. He slid off his mount and began to walk around the area. He stopped beside a low growing cedar bush and pulled back some branches.

  James Joseph crouched there, a hunting knife in his hand. In a single quick motion, the Indian snatched the knife away with one hand, and grabbed James Joseph with the other. The small boy struggled, but it was wasted effort. The Indian placed James Joseph on the horse, took the reins, and jumped onto his own mount. He set off to the south, pulling the small sorrel mare and its young rider behind him.

  Chapter 1

  The Year: 2012

  Crystal Moore stood in her stocking feet, glaring at the row of shoes in her closet. Her raven hair, flipped up just below her ear lobes, looked like it had received three strokes with a brush. Dark circles under her eyes belied eight hours sleep.

  “Terrific, I’m late and can’t find a single shoe to wear,” she grumbled.

  “One won’t do any good. Need a pair.” Brandi Brewer, a mug of hot chocolate in her hand, lounged against the door to Crystal’s bedroom. “What kind you looking for?”

  Hands on hips, Crystal surveyed the jumble of shoes. “Something that’ll match my outfit.”

  Brandi appraised her housemate’s attire and shrugged. “Which part?”

  Crystal’s frown only deepened.

  “How ‘bout those by the foot of the bed.” Brandi pointed the mug at a pair of charcoal slings.

  Crystal turned her head and focused on the shoes. “They’ll do.” She padded over and stepped into the Guccis.

  “Coffee?”

  “Don’t have time. Didn’t sleep well last night, and can’t seem to get going.” She rummaged in her purse, found a tube of lipstick and bent down to look in the mirror over the dressing table.

  “Guess not. I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. No news flash there. When I passed your door, you were really thrashing around. Thought you had a man under the covers.” Brandi giggled. “Who’s Dr. Coup?”

  Crystal’s hand jerked, sending a slash of bright coral from lip to nose. Slowly, her shoulders sagged, like a balloon losing some of its air. Her eyes glazed over and she stood motionless, barely breathing.

  Dr. Krupe. The brilliant Dr. Krupe. Why couldn’t she purge his memory from her brain?

  She forced her mind back to the present, straightened her back, focused her eyes. “I don’t know any Dr. Coup.”

  “Well, he was on your mind last night. Heard it going and coming back.”

  “I don’t know anybody by that name.” She snatched a pale pink tissue from a box on the dresser and tried to repair the damage. “And why were you eavesdropping?”

  “Eavesdropping? You were talking in your sleep, for God’s sake. And I have to pass by your door to get to the bathroom.” The short, auburn-haired woman turned and sauntered into the living room.

  Crystal examined the image in the mirror. Her upper lip retained an orange glow on the right side. She glanced at the clock, shook her head and tossed the tissue at the wastebasket. She dropped the lipstick in her purse and hurried into the living room.

  Brandi sat on the couch, feet curled under her, thumbing through a magazine.

  “Sorry I snapped at you,” Crystal said as she stopped to gather papers off the coffee table. “I had a lousy night and so far this morning, things aren’t improving. But that’s no excuse to lash out at you. Sorry.”

  “Forgotten.”

  “See you tonight. I promise to be in a better mood.” Crystal dashed out of the apartment.

  #

  Crystal pulled open the heavy glass door to the offices of Intelligent Retrieval Systems. Pam Ragley, the receptionist, looked up. “Hi, Crystal. Dr. O’Malley wants to see you the minute you get in.”

  Crystal arched her eyebrows. “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. But all hell’s broken loose. All I can tell you is, he’s on the warpath.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  Crystal paused at the open door and tapped lightly. “You wanted to see me?”

  Dr. Mark O’Malley, the thirty-five-year-old president and principal owner of IRS, Inc., motioned her in with his left hand while he continued to write on a pale green pad of paper. She settled down in one of the dark blue leather chairs opposite his desk and waited.

  Crystal didn’t mind waiting. It gave her time to study Mark. She knew he was her boss and she shouldn’t mix business and pleasure, but just watching him caused a little flutter in her stomach.

  He dropped the pencil and glanced at the small, digital clock on the corner of his desk.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Crystal said.

  “Hasn’t been a good morning. Give me an update on your project. Where does it stand?”

  Crystal felt a slight blush rise up her cheeks. “It’s still behind schedule, but I think we’re catching up. We should be ready to load data in a week. Ten days at the outside.”

  Mark’s sapphire eyes bored into hers but he said nothing. She looked away, repositioned herself in the chair and slipped her fingers under her thighs. The silence seemed to stretch on forever. “We might be able to load data this week, maybe Friday, if all goes well,” she said, although her voice lacked any conviction.

  A jumble of thoughts milled around in her head. This is not at all like Mark.

  He let out a long sigh. “It seems like everything is falling behind.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Rooney’s unhappy.” Rooney Associates provided the venture capital that was helping Intelligent Retrieval Systems grow. “They’ve got a new consultant. He went over our last report, and apparently, he didn’t like it. So, he's stirring them up. They’re coming to look over our shoulders and see what we’re doing and why we're not doing it faster."

  Now, Crystal’s face mirrored the concern of her boss. She knew Sally’s project had bogged down recently. Phil’s group had just started a new project and would have nothing to show. And
her project wasn’t ready to show investors.

  “At any rate,” Mark continued, his voice losing some of the sharpness, “we need to put on a good dog-and-pony show when this guy gets here. The next round of funding is due in a couple of months. Not a good time to make them unhappy. Or cause them to have second thoughts.”

  “They can’t—”

  “Oh yes they can. The bulk of that inch-thick agreement insures they can do almost anything. And while I think Rooney is fair, I know he’s hard-nosed. He’ll do what he thinks is best for Rooney. See if you can push—”

  Pam's voice came over the intercom. “Sorry to break in, Dr. O’Malley, but Crystal’s grandmother is on line one and sounds like she really needs to talk to Crystal—right now. What should I tell her?”

  Mark frowned at the intercom, then at Crystal. “Transfer it to Crystal’s office. At least one of us should be working.”

  Crystal felt like she had been reprimanded. She left without a word and trudged the fifty feet to her office. She collapsed in her chair and reached for the phone. Probably nothing more than Nana finding some new guy she wants to match me up with.

  She forced a smile on her face and tried to sound as bright as possible. "Hi, Nana. What's up?"

  "Somebody tried to kill me."

  Chapter 2

  Crystal Moore’s eyes shot wide open and she sat bolt upright. Disconnected pictures, all bleak, flashed in Crystal’s mind, as a chill descended over her. “Tried to kill you!” Her voice almost failed her. Her chest felt like something was crushing it. She could feel her blood pulsing in her veins. “Are you Okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where are you?”