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“The more immediate problem is twofold. One is Vance. The other is what’s happening within the Order. We have our own version of the Civil War happening as we speak.”
“Is that why Breckinridge ratted you out?”
“I thought that might be how you found me.”
“A lot’s been happening at the Smithsonian tonight.”
“I’ve been out of touch, dealing with you. Can you tell me about it?”
So as a courtesy he told Weston what he knew.
“Breckinridge pointed Malone toward me,” Weston said, “because he wants me preoccupied, so he can do what he plans.”
“Which is?”
“Destroy the five stones and prevent anyone from finding the vault. He thinks that wealth should be left alone, until he says it’s okay to use it. Interesting how all this seems to be not about gold, but power. Both Breckinridge and Vance want an unchecked version.”
“Malone’s on his way after the old man. The son is with him. And that bastard shot someone near and dear to me.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to Ms. Nelle. I never realized you were that close to her.”
“More than you think. I want Grant Breckinridge. We know they’re headed to New Mexico. Where exactly?”
Weston did not answer him, which was irritating.
“Warren, maybe you don’t get it. The game’s over. If you want Vance stopped, I’m all you got. If you want Breckinridge stopped, Malone is your only bet. He’s on their tail, but I need to get him ahead of the game. Where are they going?”
“Pasto al Norte.”
“My Spanish is lousy.”
“Shepherd of the North.”
* * *
Cotton stared at the computer screen.
He’d added the images of the Horse and Witch’s Stone to those of the now merged Heart and Trail Stones.
The phone on the desk beside the laptop buzzed.
He answered on speaker.
“Cotton,” Danny Daniels said. “I’m here with the Chief Justice. And you were right. He is the Order’s head honcho. The two you’re after are headed to a tract of land once owned by your relative Angus Adams. When he died, he left that land to the federal government and it’s now part of the Carson National Forest in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The vault is there.”
Cotton stared harder at the stones on the screen.
“There’s an old mission, which was part of Adams’ land. And a church called Pasto al Norte. Shepherd of the North.”
“That’s on the Horse Stone. But I read the Spanish as The horse of faith, I graze to the north of the river.”
“The Spanish is ambiguous,” Weston said. “We’ve long thought it to mean the servant of faith, I shepherd to the north of the river.”
That made sense.
Then another dot connected.
He reached for the journal and found its title page. “Adams’s field journal contains the words the servant of faith. He seems to call himself that.”
“You found the journal?” Weston asked.
Apparently Daniels had not passed on that piece of information.
So he told the chief justice how and where.
“We need to talk,” he heard Weston say.
And not to him.
“We’ll call you back,” Daniels said.
* * *
Danny ended the call to Malone and stared at Weston.
“Angus Adams is the key,” Weston said. “After the war, he personally supervised the consolidation of the Order’s wealth. By 1890 most of it had been gathered and moved west to his land in New Mexico, inside a repository he secretly created.”
“The vault.”
“That’s what he called it. Previous to that, he oversaw the creation of the stones, which were hidden with sentinels around the country. But secrets being what they are, they don’t stay secret forever, and people started looking for the stones. In the early part of the 20th century, some Smithsonian curators found three. The Horse, Trail, and Heart. But in 1909 one of our historians was killed looking into this.”
“The Smithsonian wanted the gold?”
“Definitely. Billions of dollars in wealth just sitting out there. For an institution that lives off donations, that would have been the mother lode. But they found nothing, and everything went quiet until the 1970s, when Davis Layne started looking again. That’s when Breckinridge stepped in and shut things down.”
“And when did you assume the role of the knights’ commander?”
“I’ve been a member since I was twenty-seven. But in 1980 our commander died and I was chosen to replace him. I was two years into my Supreme Court appointment. As chancellor of the Smithsonian I had access to a vast archive, and I’ve spent the past three decades learning what I could. I tried to get Breckinridge to open up and tell me what he knew, but the old fool refused. He and I never saw eye-to-eye.” Weston paused. “I do know the starting point, though. It was created and preserved by Angus Adams. That information has been passed to each commander since.”
He waited.
“But a problem developed.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Cotton kept staring at his great-great-grandfather’s journal, remembering the gold cross and circle he’d seen in his mother’s jewelry box. She’d never told him much about it, but now he knew its likely origin.
Her ancestor.
Angus Adams.
A knight of the Golden Circle.
No wonder she thought the tradition of passing the necklace down through the generations should stop with her. He shoo
k his head. He was so much like her. So easy for them both to keep things to themselves. But she had shared one thing.
A book.
From the old trunk in the attic.
“Where did it come from?” he asked his mother.
He’d never seen one like it before. The library at his elementary school contained many books, but none like this.
“It belonged to a relative of mine. A spy during the Civil War. But he was also an artist. He painted for the Smithsonian and made this book.”
He read the title.
The Servant of Faith.
He’d first noticed the words on the Horse Stone but had dismissed any connection since, at the time, he’d known little of Angus Adams’ involvement. But when he found the journal in Breckinridge’s gramophone and saw what Adams had written at the bottom of the title page, he’d made the connection.
“Is this book old?” he asked his mother.
“The date inside says 1889. It was a gift from my great-grandfather to my grandfather, who lived here on the farm. But it’s not an ordinary book.”
Which he’d seen after opening the cover. Past the title page there was writing on only two of the hundred or so pages. The rest were blank, though they were all elegantly gilded on three sides.
“It has only a poem inside,” his mother said. “I assume it was written by my great grandfather. His name was Angus. He titled the poem ‘The Servant of Faith.’”
His eidetic memory recalled every word.
Ye aging knights of silver grey,
We ask you not to fade away.
Though your hair has turned to white,
Your weary bones no more to fight.
While at last the time has come,
You ride into the setting sun.
Then again you ride once more,
On honored fields just like before.
When at last you need your rest,
The South will face its greatest test.
O Elder Knights all clad in grey,
Lead the charge into the fray.
Our Confederate Nation ask of thee,
Ride once more and set us free.
Silver Knights have walked this land,
In golden years they make a stand.
