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.
The weeks that followed were the hardest of Elijah Tanner's life. Harder than the winter his wife died. Harder than anything he had faced since the day he first learned what it meant to be alone in a hard country. He split his stores evenly with the Apache, measuring out the grain and the beans and the flour with the same care a doctor might use measuring medicine for the dying. He watched the piles shrink day by day, knowing with every handful he scooped that he was taking it from his own future, and he did not let himself think too hard about what would happen when the last handful was gone.