Meantime in their own private car the bride and groom were whirled on
their way to the west, but they saw little of the scenery, being engaged
in the all-absorbing story of each other's lives since they had parted.
And one bright morning, they stepped down from the train at Malta and
gazed about them.
The sun was shining clear and wonderful, and the little brown station
stood drearily against the brightness of the day like a picture that has
long hung on the wall of one's memory and is suddenly brought out and the
dust wiped away.
They purchased a couple of horses, and with camp accoutrements following
began their real wedding trip, over the road they had come together when
they first met. Elizabeth had to show her husband where she had hidden
while the men went by, and he drew her close in his arms and thanked God
that she had escaped so miraculously.
It seemed so wonderful to be in the same places again, for nothing out
here in the wilderness seemed much to have changed, and yet they two were
so changed that the people they met did not seem to recognize them as ever
having been that way before.
They dined sumptuously in the same coulee, and recalled little things they
had said and done, and Elizabeth now worldly wise, laughed at her own
former ignorance as her husband reminded her of some questions she had
asked him on that memorable journey. And ever through the beautiful
journey he was telling her how wonderful she seemed to him, both then and
now.
Not however, till they reached the old ranchhouse, where the woman had
tried to persuade her to stay, did they stop for long.
Elizabeth had a tender feeling in her heart for that motherly woman who
had sought to protect her, and felt a longing to let her know how safely
she had been kept through the long journey and how good the Lord had been
to her through the years. Also they both desired to reward these kind
people for their hospitality in the time of need. So, in the early evening
they rode up just as they did before to the little old log house. But no
friendly door flung open wide as they came near, and at first they thought
the cabin deserted, till a candle flare suddenly shone forth in the
bedroom, and then Benedict dismounted and knocked.
After some waiting the old man came to the door holding a candle high
above his head. His face was haggard and worn, and the whole place looked
dishevelled. His eyes had a weary look as he peered into the night and it
was evident that he had no thought of ever having seen them before: "I can't do much fer ya, strangers," he said, his voice sounding tired and
discouraged. "If it's a woman ye have with ye, ye better ride on to the
next ranch. My woman is sick. Very sick. There's nobody here with her but
me, and I have all I can tend to. The house ain't kept very tidy. It's six
weeks since she took to bed."