"We have got to go to the Double Adobes anyhow, so why not go to-day?" I said, after breakfast, as I stood at the door of the Gray Place.

"Why not?" observed the Don. "If we can only get well started before night—which doesn't seem likely, at the rate you fellows stand still—we shall very likely manage to get soaked through, and have to camp on the plain in wet clothes, by the look of the sky over there."

"That'll be all right; I am not frightened at a little rain," said I, laughing.

"That settles it, then," rejoined the Colonel. "We shall have to go now, whether or no. This Englishman can't bluff us worth a cent. Murray! tell the boys not to turn the little black mules out to grass; and I guess you'd better come over with us, and see how old Tommy is fixing up that new spring he found back of Pigpen's place."

It was about sixteen miles to the Double Adobes ranch, and since, after all, it did not rain on our way thither, the drive was very enjoyable. The Colonel's rheumatism being somewhat better, he was in great spirits, and told a score of good tales as we went along, only one of which recurs to me at the present moment. That one, however, I will jot down at once lest it be forgotten also.

"Well," said Don Cabeza, something having given him his cue, "a lot of youngsters were collected, one Sunday afternoon, round a badger hole in which there was a mighty obstinate old badger—one of these old toughs that you could knock sparks out of with a hammer. Anyhow, the young sports had put all their swell imported terriers in to him, and the old badger had come out on top every time—at least, he hadn't 'come out' on top, because he hadn't come out at all; but when he and the dogs got to chewing one another underground, he appeared to have away ahead the finest appetite. It seemed he had enough patterns of hide down there for old Ma'am Badger to make a crazy quilt of; and the boys were just about to quit when a chap who was standing by looking on said, kind o' sadly:

"'I guess, misters, that my old dog 'd fetch that badger out for you—if you want him out, that is.'

"The stranger was one of these plank-shaped citizens, with shiny hair, like sea-weed; he was a coffee-coloured cuss, and looked as melancholy as a sick monkey. His clothes might have been entailed clothes, in which the family had lived for centuries; and the mongrel was about as nearly like his master as a dog could be. Well, sir, the young bucks took a look at them both, and the more they looked, the more they laughed. The notion that that cur could beat all their finely-bred, imported terriers, just tickled them to death; and first one, and then another, and finally the whole boiling of them offered to bet twenty, thirty, forty to one against him—anything the owner liked, in fact. But they couldn't bluff the old man off; he stayed with them; he seemed to have more money along, too, than you'd expect to find in such old clothes. And the more the boys kept sousing it to him, the more he kept taking 'em, till finally they quit. And when the bets were all laid out on a big stone, there was more money there than would patch hell a mile!

"Well, they stood around to see the fun. It was pretty clear that some one was going to fall awful sick before the deal was over. However, the visitor didn't seem like he thought that it was going to be he. He picked the mongrel up and stroked him tenderly, and the old dog winced a little mite too, as if he could see a chapter or so ahead of him. 'Put him in,' said the boys, 'put him in!' 'Right now, gentlemen,' said the stranger, and stooping down he prized him gently into the earth—stern first. Well, sir, you should have heard those boys laugh when they saw that. Laugh? Well, I should say they did laugh. For a minute or two the old dog lay there with his head out of doors—one eye fixed reproachfully on his master, the other cocked anxiously backwards. Then, all of a sudden there was a terrific yelp, and a cloud of dust, and he shot out of the hole with the badger fastened on to him. And for the life of you, you couldn't have told which looked the most foolish—the young sports, or the old badger. As for the stranger, he raked in the bets, and when he'd got a little way off, he turned around as if he'd forgotten something, and says he, mournfully: 'Boys—Misters, I'm from Pecos county, Texas. I'm on'y a schoolteacher thar, but they all know me. Shuf's my name—Eb'neezer Shuf—ask for "Joyful" Shuf.'

"'We're coming to call to-morrow,' said the boys."

The Double Adobes, one of the four occupied ranch houses in the valley, was prettily situated at the base of the Peak, and near the mouth of a gorge that penetrated the Animas range. During the rainy season a considerable stream threaded this pass, but at the present time its bed was dry. A number of cotton-wood trees dotted its banks, and surrounded some neighbouring springs; and, beneath their shade, hundreds of cattle that had come in to water at the latter, were standing, in a condition of complete oblivion, drowsily switching their flanks, licking the boulders of rock-salt which had been placed there for their use, or lying on the cool earth, chewing the cud, in dreamy idleness.

In the shade of a giant cotton-wood (whose trunk bore the carved initials of more than one well-known "rustler" who had since passed in his checks), stood the little mud-coloured hut, dignified by the title of ranch house. To the right of it was a circular corral, stoutly constructed of juniper posts; to the left of it, a rail, furnished with pegs, to which the bridles of nags in waiting might be linked; and, not far off, lay a pile of dead fire-wood from the hills. A gleaming axe-head stuck in the chopping log, and in the carpet of dry chips around it were stretched two large mongrels, red and white respectively in colour, but totally indistinguishable in type. The brilliant sunlight of the winter's noon fell on the cabin—dingy, flat-topped, and unlovely, and probably accentuated all its bad points. On a bench outside the door was a tin basin and some soap; hard by stood a tin pail. If you care to remove the dust from your hands and face after the drive, there are the springs—fenced in there by split posts! Take the pail down, old chap, and fetch yourself some water. To wait upon yourself is good for you, they say; at any rate, it is a little compliment that nearly everybody pays himself in this country, and certain it is that constant advantages are to be derived from the practice which are not obtainable in any other way.

As the Double Adobes is a rather typical ranch cabin of the smaller class, it will be as well, perhaps, to describe it. Adobes, of course, are unbaked bricks, for the manufacture of which the bottom earth of the country is peculiarly adapted. They are generally made about 6 x 14 x 24 inches. A space having been marked out for three rooms of about 18 x 16 feet, to compose the present house, the two end rooms had been completed, the space between them being left open, save inasmuch as it was covered in by the roof which ran from end to end of the whole building. The two rooms had originally opened into the portiÈre in the centre, but the entrance to the one which was inhabited had since been changed to the front of the house. The roof was flat and consisted of brush-wood covered with mud, and supported by pine vigas. As only two men were living here, they occupied one room, and kept their stores in the other.

Come inside;—there is no one here; both the boys are out. Yes, judging from those poker drawings on the door, artistic talent is at a low ebb; but, until lately, it has been accounted of more importance in this country to draw a straight bead than a straight line. Loop-holed! Well, the men who built this place expected occasionally to have to "stand off" irate Mexicans who had followed stolen stock into the valley, and, even now, it is impossible to say with certainty that a band of skulking Apaches will not turn up in its vicinity to-morrow. There is one small window through which light may be admitted; but, as a rule, the shutter is closed, and the cabin illuminated through the open door. The floor is of beaten clay, and the wide, open fireplace is built in one corner of the room. A pile of logs, some brush-wood, and a broken-handled axe lie near it. On the hearth are some dog-irons, the ashes of the breakfast fire, and a Dutch-oven. The walls in this corner are decorated with frying-pans, and other cooking utensils, all scrupulously clean, be it observed.[32] "And," as old Herrick says:

In opposite corners of the room are two roughly-carpentered frame bedsteads, in which a lacing of raw-hide stripes supplies the place of laths and mattresses, a few blankets constitute the bedding, and folded great-coats serve for the pillows. In the fourth corner is the table, covered with burnt tracings of brands, but beautifully clean, for it is washed every day. Hard by is a sack of flour, near it hang a side of bacon and the hind-quarters of an antelope, and on the neighbouring shelves are a few tins of canned tomatoes, some plates and cups, and a coffeepot, etc. Canvas garments, leather overalls, old boots, old saddles, carbines, old carbine and revolver scabbards, a spade, and innumerable odds and ends lie about in a very wreck of order. If the gentle housewife ruled here, they would all be tucked away under the bed, to moulder with other accumulations of litter and dirt. Here and there, about the room, stand upright posts affording extra support to the roof. And to these are nailed a few horns of antelope, black or white-tail deer, from which cartridge-belts, lariats, bridles, hackamores, quirts, spurs, and an old canteen depend. The bowl of a briar-root pipe is stuck on the end of one prong, a newspaper is transfixed on another, and an empty whisky-bottle sticks, bottom upwards, on a third. A three-legged stool, a crippled chair, and a couple of empty grocery boxes, standing on end, complete the furniture.

We took possession of the premises, and proceeded to get lunch. But before we had finished doing so, "old Tommy" appeared in the doorway, pipe in hand, and feeling for a match. I know not why it should have been so, but Tommy always seemed to me to be pressing the last of a load of tobacco into the bowl of his dilapidated old pipe, with the forefinger of one hand, whilst, with the other hand, he felt somewhere about in the band of his canvas pants, probably in a watch-pocket there, for a match.

Here and there I have met many a gnarled old limb of humanity, but he was the driest that I ever encountered—"as dry as the remainder biscuit, after a voyage." Mummy dust would have been something of refreshing moisture by comparison with his nature. Tommy—what his surname may have been, it never occurred to me to wonder until this moment—Tommy was a sort of odd man in the valley. He repaired houses, corrals, or anything that required repairing, cleaned out the springs, dug troughs, or turned his hand to anything. He was about five feet four or five inches in height, spare of build, and as "wrinkles, the d——d democrats, won't flatter," his brown-crusty physiognomy showed him to be on the high road to sixty, if not already there. There was not very much of him, but what there was, was tough and of good material; he was a "worker;" he bore his years lightly, and liked nothing better than to get into a circle of young cow-punchers, and chin and josh[33] with them in his funereal fashion, as though he were their contemporary. And the boys liked old Tommy, too—all those, that is, who were worth anything. For the loafer and the braggart he "had no use," and, sooner or later, his acid tongue would be sure to embalm such an one's tendency or foible in some crisp epigram, or clinging irony.

No one in the neighbourhood, but he himself, knew the history of his past life. He claimed to be a Southerner, and it pleased him to say that, away back in some Southern State, he owned a small but prosperous farm, a good house, a beautiful wife, and all that the heart of man could desire. It appeared, however, that, during the war between North and South, he had joined the Southern army, and in the second day's fighting in the Wilderness had been wounded. He recovered sufficiently to return home, but he was no longer the man he had been. His wife, impatient of having a permanent, though only partial, invalid about the place, became estranged from him, and finally Tommy, having induced a robust young neighbour to undertake the management of the farm on half profits, with touching resignation had sallied forth alone into the great West world to reconstruct his fortune. Time had deprived his misfortunes of their sting, he said; and if he now told the tale of it with less emotion than had been the case formerly, this deficiency was compensated for in effect, by the artistic modesty, resulting from long practice, with which he threw out, and reluctantly allowed a veiled hint to be developed by the curious questioner into the whole history. Successively he had excited the sympathy of all the ranch wives in the country, by enlarging upon this sad immolation of connubial felicity on the altar of patriotism.

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."

"Oh, yes, it does," drawled Tommy, in his slowest and gravest fashion. "Oh, yes—John knows better'n that. Just as soon as Geronimo[34] comes in, he knows that he'll lose his corn and have to go to chewing grass for a living, along of the cows. Of course as long as your pack-train is here, he can go down to the picket line whenever the bugle sounds for 'stables,' kick the padding out of one of your mules, and eat up his feed."

"Can he? Well, if he can kick anything out of a Government mule, he's a daisy burro, and he's welcome to all he makes by it; he can keep any change he gets, too."

Nevertheless, this was a fact. No sooner were "stables" over and the mules fed, than "John L. Sullivan" swaggered down the front of the picket line, selected a helping of maize, turned round, backed a little towards the owner of it, measuring his distance carefully, and landed him a tremendous double savat on his nose. He continued to kick until the neighbouring mules formed an orderly though envious and admiring congregation, ranged in a semicircle, straining at their halters, around him. Then having described, as a tour de force, a few unusually surprising and altogether inimitable hieroglyphics with his heels in the air in a spirit not entirely free, it must be admitted, from ostentation, he would proceed peaceably to appropriate the spoils of war. Well might his owner be proud of him! "John L. Sullivan" was indeed "the boss!"

One day Tommy visited the farrier's quarters in camp, and intimating that he wanted the burro shod, sought through the contents of box after box of shoes there. Unable apparently to find what he required, he was leaving in silence, when the farrier commented on his departure, and regretted that his search had been unsuccessful.

"Oh, it's all right, Mr. Gorham," he said politely, "it doesn't matter; I thought you'd got some silver shoes, perhaps."

Witman and Johns, two of the hands, reflected disparagingly once on the quantity of work that Tommy had done lately.

"Well," rejoined Tommy, in his most deliberate tone, addressing the rest of the company, "there's Jim Witman here; of course I don't give up so much of my leisure to work as he does, that ain't to be expected; and there's Oliver Johns, I don't claim to direct others how to do my work for me as well as he does either. But then, in the first place, my business ain't sitting under a stoop chewing other people's baccy; and in the second, I don't want to get away and shoot off my mouth at every gal, with a head like a pisened pup, that lives within fifty miles of the valley, so there ain't any necessity for any one to do my work."

In the adjoining valley dwelt a man named Donohoe, who had the reputation of always professing to know better than anybody else how anything should be done. How far he was justified in his professions I cannot pretend to say. Tommy knew and disliked Mr. Donohoe. He had put the finishing touch one day to a spring that he had been cleaning out, stone-lining, and fencing round, and was gathering up the tools that he had been using for this purpose. "And now," he remarked in the most matter-of-fact way possible, "I think I'll just ride the burro over into the Plyas Valley, and tell Mr. Donohoe what I've been doing, and ask him if I've done it right."

I am sorry that, of the many really good things said by this interesting old gentleman which were current in the valley, the foregoing feeble specimens are all (of a publishable nature) that I can now recall to mind. They will serve, however, to indicate the vein in which he ingratiated himself with his public. He exercised considerable freedom of speech; but then he was known to carry "a long crooked knife" about him somewhere, and was credited with plenty of nerve and a very hot temper.

We spent a couple of days at the Double Adobes ranch, inspected the new spring that Tommy had discovered, hunted a little in the hills round the base of old Animas Peak, rode over a good deal of the Pigpen and Double Adobes range, and finally returned to the Gray Place.