"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. How far am I from there now?"
"About three miles," said Fred.
"Well, I guess I can walk that far if you'll show me the road."