Guided by the calls, he turned aside from his course and made his way
through the choking storm across the prairie.
The cries came nearer, and Fred shouted in reply--words of impatient
encouragement. No rescuer ever went to his work with a worse grace.
A large, dark object loomed faintly through the driving storm.
"What's the matter?" called Fred, when he was within speaking distance.
"I'm caught--tangled up in some devilish thing," came back the cry.
Fred hurried forward, and found a man, almost covered with snow,
huddled beside a haystack, his clothing securely held by the barbs of
the wire with which the stack was fenced.
"You're stuck in the barbed wire," said Fred, as he removed his mittens
and with a good deal of difficulty released the man from the close grip
of the barbs.
"I hired a livery-man at Brandon to bring me out, and his bronchos
upset us and got away from him. He walked them the whole way--the roads
were heavy--and then look at what they did! I came over here for
shelter--the driver ran after the team, and then these infernal
fishhooks got hold of me--what are they, anyway?"
Fred explained.
"This is surely a God-forsaken country that can jerk a storm like this
on you in November," the older man declared, as Fred carefully dusted
the snow off him, wondering all the time what he was going to do with
him.
"Where are you going?" Fred asked, abruptly.
"I want to get to the Black Creek Stopping-House.
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