Then he thrust his fawn-colored muzzle to the stars and brayed and brayed, his good ear working like a pump handle as he tore the sounds loose from his vitals.
Casey cursed him in a whisper, having no voice left.

He kicked William in the flanks, having no other means of coercion at hand.

But kicking never yet altered the determination of a mule, and cursing a mule in a whisper is like blowing your breath against the sail of a becalmed sloop.

William kept his tail toward the light, and furthermore he momentarily drew his tail farther and farther from that spot.

Now and then he would turn his head and glance back, and immediately increase his pace a little.