A frown of weariness puckered the brow of Shorty.

Purple, bruised places of sleeplessness surrounded his eyes.

And every line of age or worry or labor was graven more deeply on his face.
"Huh!" grunted Shorty again, mumbling his words very much like a drunkard.

"I've killed my Mamie hoss, that's all!" And with this gloomy retort, he urged the mare to a down-headed trot.

In fact, the staunch little brown mare staggered on tired legs and her sides heaved like bellows.