Chapter 4

I ain’t wanted in the bunk house, and you ain’t wanted in my room.

Sat’iday night. Ever’body out doin’ som’pin’. Ever’body! An’ what am I doin’? Standin’ here talkin’ to a bunch of bindle stiffs—a nigger an’ a dum–dum and a lousy ol’ sheep—an’ likin’ it because they ain’t nobody else.

It ain’t no lie. We’re gonna do it. Gonna get a little place an’ live on the fatta the lan’.

You got no right to come in my room. This here’s my room. Nobody got any right in here but me.

If I say something, why it’s just a nigger sayin’ it.

Well, you keep your place then, Nigger. I could get you strung up on a tree so easy it ain’t even funny.

This is just a nigger talkin’, an’ a busted–back nigger. So it don’t mean nothing, see? You couldn’t remember it anyways.

’Long as you won’t get out and leave me alone, you might as well set down.

A guy can talk to you an’ be sure you won’t go blabbin’. Couple of weeks an’ them pups’ll be all right. George knows what he’s about. Jus’ talks, an’ you don’t understand nothing.

There wasn’t another colored family for miles around. And now there ain’t a colored man on this ranch an’ there’s jus’ one family in Soledad.