He had gone about three miles when he heard a faint halloo come down the wind.  It sounded two or three times before the real significance of it occurred to him, so intent was he upon his own affairs.  But louder and more insistent came the unmistakable call for help.

A fierce temptation assailed Fred Brydon.  He must not delay—­every minute was precious—­to save Evelyn, his wife, was surely more his duty than to set lost travellers on their way again.  Besides, he told himself, it was not a fiercely cold night—­there was no great danger of any person freezing to death; and even so, were not some things more vital than saving people from death, which must come sooner or later?  Then down the wind came the cry again—­a frightened cry—­he could hear the words—­“Help! help! for God’s sake!” Something in Fred Brydon’s heart responded to that appeal.  He could not hurry by unheeding.

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.  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.”

Fred hesitated.

“I am going to Brandon,” he said.

“What is any sane man going to Brandon to-night for?” the stranger cried, impatiently.  “Great Scott!  I thought I was the only man who was a big enough fool to be out to-night.  The driver assured me of that several times.  I guess there’s a woman in the case with you, too.”