The Man With the Three Barrel Coach

         Newcomb had been my father's engineer for years - longer than I had been on the earth. He was a burly man, shoulders broad as the horizon, muscles like boulders under his sun-bronzed skin. Most times during the summer, he wore only overalls in the hot, west Texas sun. He was a hard worker and had always been so, prolific with ideas and jubilant at all times.
         I admired Cedric Newcomb, especially because he was never one to malinger. I'd only known him to be ill twice, and he'd pressed on, working both times. The only times I could recall him missing work were when his children were born.
         There were three children in the Newcomb clan. The eldest was but two months older than me. His name was Michael Newcomb. The next was a girl named Elspeth, who was just headed off to college in Lubbock to follow in her father's footsteps. The third was another girl, aged seven, named Alice. The Newcomb family lived by an axiom their father had taught me as well - do the right thing. I believe to this day, this moral is why Father hired him. It was a welcome change from the law of Edgar Mabry. The gist of his existence was to do what was best for Edgar Mabry.
         I sat upon the stool Newcomb had made for me as a child, watching him work in the Gold City sun. I'd had that habit from childhood, perching upon my tuffet to watch him tinker on a deluge of projects. Most were machines Newcomb had created with and for my father. But, Dr. Eugene McGee often allowed Newcomb to work in the shop at our bailiwick for other people of Gold City. Newcomb was his partner, after all, not his servant.
         On that particular day, I was watching Newcomb work on the three barrel coach gun owned by the former New York City detective, Oliver Dinges. I was enthralled he had allowed Newcomb to adjust the weapon (though, I fully avow my part to coerce dear Oliver into that decision.)
         Newcomb had it broken down into basic parts, cleaning each piece as though it was a prized artifact. He smiled as he ran a soft, cotton rag down each barrel set, cleaning them gingerly. The three pieces had been blued, then exquisitely detailed with carved brass leaves and scrolls. Whomever had done this work was a master! It was... ethereal.
         "It's a work of art!" I piped, Newcomb nodded his head as he admired the three barrel coach gun through thick, brass rimmed goggles.
         "That, it is!" came Oliver's voice, not far away. Newcomb lifted his goggles and sat them atop his head where a soft patch of hair remained. He carefully set the barrel set down and shook Oliver's hand, then Oliver turned and bowed at me. I returned his gesture with a tip of my hat.
         "Do you know who made it?" asked Newcomb, visibly galvanized. Oliver smiled at him and set his hands on his slender hips.
         "A man named Alexander Stewart. Do you know his work?"
         "Do I ever!" chuckled Newcomb. "I thought this may be his art, but I couldn't imagine I was so fortunate to actually work on a Stewart coach."
         Another voice came from the edge of the yard where Newcomb's shop was situated, interrupting the glee over the prized weapon. It was Jesse Pale Horse, a rather austere old man, even for a Comanche. I'd never seen him smile, and he said very little.
         But, he was scarcely less morose this time as he modestly approached our little gathering. None of us had heard exactly what he had said, so we looked to one another for the answer.
         "I said, I'll buy that gun," repeated Pale Horse. Oliver turned to fully face him.
         "The gun is not for sale," he stated with a smile. His reply did not appear to affect Pale Horse.
         "I pay double what you paid, plus five-hundred more."
         What an odd amount, I thought.
         Oliver adjusted his hands on his slim hips and kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot. He squinted against the sun as he looked up at Pale Horse once more.
         "No good? You tell me price," the old Comanche adjured. I watched Oliver shake his head.
         "No, sir. It's not a matter of price, as I am not a man of avarice. The gun was given to me, so any amount of money would be a profit. But, the gun is quite hallowed, and I can not part with it."
         "Is this the gun I believe it is, then? The gun that took James Ernestine?" asked Pale Horse.
         "It is," Oliver confirmed.
         "Then, I will importune no further," answered Pale Horse. He was a well educated old man, despite his lack of formal schooling. It piqued my interest to know the mere fact that the gun had taken down a man named James Ernestine was enough to sway him from haggling any further. Pale Horse turned and walked away as if the conversation had not been that important. Oliver was left, hands on hips, Newcomb and me staring at one another, flabbergasted.
         "Who was James Ernestine?" queried Newcomb.
         "A very evil man," Oliver said tacitly.