women, an' the rest, an' you an' me own nothin'?"

"You own your silk, Billy," she said softly.

"An' you yours. Yet we sell it to 'em like it was cloth across
the counter at so much a yard. I guess you're hep to what a few
more years in the laundry'll do to you. Take me. I'm sellin' my
silk slow every day I work. See that little finger?" He shifted
the reins to one hand for a moment and held up the free hand for
inspection. "I can't straighten it like the others, an' it's
growin'. I never put it out fightin'. The teamin's done it.
That's silk gone across the counter, that's all. Ever see a old
four-horse teamster's hands? They look like claws they're that
crippled an' twisted."

"Things weren't like that in the old days when our folks crossed
the plains," she answered. "They might a-got their fingers
twisted, but they owned the best goin' in the way of horses and
such."

"Sure. They worked for themselves. They twisted their fingers for
themselves. But I'm twistin' my fingers for my boss. Why, d'ye
know, Saxon, his hands is soft as a woman's that's never done any
work. Yet he owns the horses an' the stables, an' never does a
tap of work, an' I manage to scratch my meal-ticket an' my
clothes. It's got my goat the way things is run. An' who runs 'em
that way? That's what I want to know. Times has changed. Who
changed 'em?"

"God didn't."