the same stretch of winter. If he fed them all, if he fed them enough to keep them alive, his stores would be empty before February was finished, and he would be the one starving when the snow was still shoulder deep. He stood in his barn for a long time on that second morning, looking at the sacks of grain stacked against the wall, feeling the cold seep through his boots, and he thought about what his father would have said. He did not have to wonder very long.
The old man's voice came to him clear as a bell across the years. A man can survive a hungry belly, Elijah, but a man cannot survive a hard heart. If we turn these folks away, we might live through the winter, but we will not live with ourselves after. There is always another way to get through, even when you cannot see it yet. And if there is not, then you go down having done right, and that is worth more than all the grain in the territory.
Elijah made his decision standing there in the cold barn with his breath fogging and his feet going numb. And once he made it, he did not second guessess it or look back. He would share what he had, every last sack of it. And he would trust that the same providence that had brought his father through hard times would bring him through this one, too. He did not say a prayer out loud because he was not the kind of man who knew the words that prayers were supposed to be made of.
But he spoke one in his heart, a simple, quiet request to whoever might be listening, that he not be made a fool for doing what he believed was right. Then he walked out to where the Apache were sheltering in the warmth of his barn, wrapped in blankets and pressed together for warmth. And he told the old man, whose name he had learned was Kusen, that they would not have to worry about food as long as they stayed on his land. Whatever I have, Elijah said, you will share. It is not much.
It will not be easy, but it is what I can give and I am giving it. Kusen looked at him for a long time without speaking. His dark eyes holding depths that Elijah could not read and probably never would. Then the old man reached out and placed one thin hand on Elijah's shoulder, his grip weak from hunger and age, but his eyes steady as stone. "You give what you need for yourself," Kusen said.
"You give what keeps your own life going. This is not a small thing. My people have long memories, and we do not forget those who help us when help costs everything." Elijah nodded once and turned away before the old man could see his face because there was something in his eyes that he did not want anyone to witness. He did not know if the Apache would remember or forget and in that moment it did not matter to him either way. He knew only that the grain was already spoken for and the dye was already cast.