My mule had a fast walk, which kept the general's horse most of the time in a half-trot.
His animal was a fine Kentucky thoroughbred, but for the kind of work at hand I had full confidence in my mount.

Whenever Custer was not looking I slyly spurred the mule ahead, and when he would start forward I would rein him in and pat him by way of restraint, bidding him not to be too fractious, as we hadn't yet reached the sandhills.

In this way I set a good lively pace--something like nine miles an hour--all morning.
At Smoky Hill River we rested our animals.

Then the general, who was impatient to be off, ordered a fresh start.

I told him we had still forty miles of sandhills to cross, and advised an easier gait.
"I have no time to waste on the road," he said.