Tommy's sole possession was a donkey—a burro, I should say (for, amongst the many Spanish words that have become naturalised in New Mexico, burro is one of the most universally adopted). And a magnificent burro he was, too—the finest and fattest that I ever saw. Sancho Panza and Dapple were not gifted with greater individuality than were Tommy and "John L. Sullivan." Numerous and tempting though the offers were that were made for him, they were always scornfully rejected, for, as the somewhat sarcastic owner would often ask:—What would it profit him if he gained the whole world, and lost the society of his burro? Burro and master were bosom friends. In moments when the relations between them were most strained, when they differed in intention almost to the point of open rupture, Tommy would only ask sorrowfully whether it were the perverse John's desire to force him to sell him for a riding horse to a New York dude. But such little family breezes were hushed up, and, as a rule, the spirit which marked their intercourse was sweet and calm.
Long and serious were the confabulations which these two held together. In all the news of the day, local, foreign, personal, or political, Tommy religiously kept the ass posted, and gravely consulted with him about it. He was wont to remark that, were every man as fortunate in his counsellor as he was, the affairs of the world would be much better managed than they were.
I am uncertain what the burro's politics were; some of the boys asserted that he was a Mugwump; whatever he may have been nominally, however, party ties sat lightly on him, and his decisions were extremely independent. I often regretted, when I heard his commanding voice away off on the hillside, that a debater and orator so admirably fitted to lead in our own House of Commons at that time (1885) should be lost to the Ministerial benches. It was, indeed, a sad case that one who "could have given the odds of two brays to the greatest and most skilful brayer in the world, for his tones were rich, his time correct, his notes well sustained, and his cadences abrupt and beautiful," should have been born to waste his persuasive voice on the desert air.
Major Tupper was quartered once at the Cloverdale ranch when "John L. Sullivan" and his master were there; and one evening whilst we were at supper, Tommy entered, looking graver than usual, if possible.
"I've just been talking to John, Major," he observed.
"Oh! and what does the burro say, Tommy?"
"He's awful scared that this Indian war's going to end."
"It don't matter much to him anyway."