"Hello, kid! Who you lookin' for?" The voice was deep and full and had a cheerful, confident ring in it.
John looked up quickly and saw standing in the narrow doorway a man whom he rightly guessed to be Barney Madden. He was a man over thirty, of medium height, rather slight, wiry build, showing good, hard condition; his face, decorated with a brown mustache, was a good one—determination, courage, and an abundant sense of humor could be seen there. He had deep-set, blue-gray eyes, which could be both stern and merry.
"I'm looking for you, I guess," the youngster answered, after a moment's pause, "if you're Barney Madden. My name's Worth, John Worth, and Mr. Baker sent me out here to help you range-ridin'."
"Sure, I'm Barney Madden. I'm plumb glad to see yer; you look like a good, husky kid, and will help me a lot, I hope. Put your horse in the dug-out yonder, then come back and help me get supper," and he pointed to a little, cave-like house built to shelter the horses of the range-riders in winter.
Soon the sorrel was contentedly munching hay in the warm stables with three or four other horses.
Returning to the shack, John found Barney on his knees blowing the fire vigorously.
"Well, kid, you'd better go down to the creek for some water." Barney spoke in a disjointed fashion, between puffs. "Can you cook?"
The youngster said he could a little.
"Well, suppose you try on this supper. I ain't no cook, never was; don't like it. If you'll take care of the eatin' outfit I'll be satisfied all right."