THE OWNERS OF THE land came onto the land, or more often a spokesman for
the owners came. They came in closed cars, and they felt the dry earth with their
fingers, and sometimes they drove big earth augers into the ground for soil tests. The
tenants, from their sun-beaten dooryards, watched uneasily when the closed cars drove
along the fields. And at last the owner men drove into the dooryards and sat in their
cars to talk out of the windows. The tenant men stood beside the cars for a while, and
then squatted on their hams and found sticks with which to mark the dust.
In the open doors the women stood looking  out, and behind them the children—
corn-headed children, with wide eyes, one bare foot on top of the other bare foot, and
the toes working. The women and the children watched their men talking to the owner
men. They were silent.
Some of the owner men were kind because they hated what they had to do, and
some of them were angry because they hated to be cruel, and some of them were cold
because they had long ago found that one could not be an owner unless one were cold.
And all of them were caught in something larger than themselves. Some of them hated
the mathematics that drove them, and some were afraid, and some worshiped the
mathematics because it provided a refuge from thought and from feeling. If a bank or a
finance company owned the land, the owner man said, The Bank—or the Company—
needs—wants—insists—must have—as though the Bank or the Company were a
monster, with thought and feeling, which had ensnared them. These last would take no
responsibility for the banks or the companies because they were men and slaves, while
the banks were machines and masters all at the same time. Some of the owner men
were a little proud to be slaves to such cold and powerful masters. The owner men sat
in the cars and explained. You know the land is poor. You've scrabbled at it long
enough, God knows. The squatting tenant men nodded and wondered and drew figures in the dust, and
yes, they knew, God knows. If the dust only wouldn't fly. If the top would only stay on
the soil, it might not be so bad.
The owner men went on leading to their point: You know the land's getting poorer.
You know what cotton does to the land; robs it, sucks all the blood out of it.
The squatters nodded—they knew, God knew.  If they could only rotate the crops
they might pump blood back into the land.
Well, it's too late. And the owner men explained the workings and the thinkings of
the monster that was stronger than they were. A man can hold land if he can just eat
and pay taxes; he can do that.
Yes, he can do that until his crops fail one day and he has to borrow money from the
bank.
But—you see, a bank or a company can't  do that, because those creatures don't
breathe air, don't eat side-meat. They breathe profits; they eat the interest on money. If
they don't get it, they die the way you die without air, without side-meat. It is a sad
thing, but it is so. It is just so.
The squatting men raised their eyes to understand. Can't we just hang on? Maybe
the next year will be a good year. God knows how much cotton next year. And with all
the wars—God knows what price cotton will bring. Don't they make explosives out of
cotton? And uniforms? Get enough wars and cotton'll hit the ceiling. Next year,
maybe. They looked up questioningly.
We can't depend on it. The bank—the monster has to have profits all the time. It
can't wait. It'll die. No, taxes go on. When the monster stops growing, it dies. It can't
stay one size.
Soft fingers began to tap the sill of the car window, and hard fingers tightened on
the restless drawing sticks. In the doorways of the sun-beaten tenant houses, women
sighed and then shifted feet so that the one that had been down was now on top, and
the toes working. Dogs came sniffing near the owner cars and wetted on all four tires
one after another. And chickens lay in the sunny dust and fluffed their feathers to get
the cleansing dust down to the skin. In the little sties the pigs grunted inquiringly over
the muddy remnants of the slops.
The squatting men looked down again. What do you want us to do? We can't take
less share of the crop—we're half starved now. The kids are hungry all the time. We
got no clothes, torn an' ragged. If all the neighbors weren't the same, we'd be ashamed
to go to meeting.
And at last the owner men came to the point. The tenant system won't work any
more. One man on a tractor can take the place of twelve or fourteen families. Pay him
a wage and take all the crop. We have to do it. We don't like to do it. But the monster's
sick. Something's happened to the monster.
But you'll kill the land with cotton.
We know. We've got to take cotton quick before the land dies. Then we'll sell the
land. Lots of families in the East would like to own a piece of land.
The tenant men looked up alarmed. But what'll happen to us? How'll we eat?
You'll have to get off the land. The plows'll go through the dooryard.
And now the squatting men stood up angrily. Grampa took up the land, and he had
to kill the Indians and drive them away. And Pa was born here, and he killed weeds and snakes. Then a bad year came and he had to borrow a little money. An' we was
born here. There in the door—our children born here. And Pa had to borrow money.
The bank owned the land then, but we stayed and we got a little bit of what we raised.
We know that—all that. It's not us, it's  the bank. A bank isn't like a man. Or an
owner with fifty thousand acres, he isn't like a man either. That's the monster.
Sure, cried the tenant men, but it's our  land. We measured it and broke it up. We
were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it's no good, it's still ours.
That's what makes it ours—being born on  it, working it, dying  on it. That makes
ownership, not a paper with numbers on it.
We're sorry. It's not us. It's the monster. The bank isn't like a man.
Yes, but the bank is only made of men.
No, you're wrong there—quite wrong there. The bank is something else than men. It
happens that every man in a bank hates what the bank does, and yet the bank does it.
The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It's the monster. Men made it, but
they can't control it.
The tenants cried, Grampa killed Indians, Pa killed snakes for the land. Maybe we
can kill banks—they're worse than Indians and snakes. Maybe we got to fight to keep
our land, like Pa and Grampa did.
And now the owner men grew angry. You'll have to go.
But it's ours, the tenant men cried. We—
No. The bank, the monster owns it. You'll have to go.
We'll get our guns, like Grampa when the Indians came. What then?
Well—first the sheriff, and then the troops. You'll be stealing if you try to stay,
you'll be murderers if you kill to stay. The monster isn't men, but it can make men do
what it wants.
But if we go, where'll we go? How'll we go? We got no money.
We're sorry, said the owner men. The bank, the fifty-thousand-acre owner can't be
responsible. You're on land that isn't yours. Once over the line maybe you can pick
cotton in the fall. Maybe you can go on relief. Why don't you go on west to California?
There's work there, and it never gets cold. Why, you can reach out anywhere and pick
an orange. Why, there's always some kind of crop to work in. Why don't you go there?
And the owner men started their cars and rolled away.
The tenant men squatted down on their hams again to mark the dust with a stick, to
figure, to wonder. Their sunburned faces were dark, and their sun-whipped eyes were
light. The women moved cautiously out of  the doorways toward their men, and the
children crept behind the women, cautiously, ready to run. The bigger boys squatted
beside their fathers, because that made them men. After a time the women asked, What
did he want?
And the men looked up for a second, and the smolder of pain was in their eyes. We
got to get off. A tractor and a superintendent. Like factories.
Where'll we go? the women asked.
We don't know. We don't know.
And the women went quickly, quietly back into the houses and herded the children
ahead of them. They knew that a man so hurt and so perplexed may turn in anger, even
on people he loves. They left the men alone to figure and to wonder in the dust. After a time perhaps the tenant man looked about—at the pump put in ten years
ago, with a goose-neck handle and iron flowers on the spout, at the chopping block
where a thousand chickens had been killed, at the hand plow lying in the shed, and the
patent crib hanging in the rafters over it.
The children crowded about  the women in the houses. What we going to do, Ma?
Where we going to go?
The women said, We don't know, yet. Go out and play. But don't go near your
father. He might whale you if you go near him. And the women went on with the work,
but all the time they watched the men squatting in the dust—perplexed and figuring.