Three strangers strike up a conversation in the
airport passenger lounge in Bozeman, Montana, while
awaiting their respective flights.
One is an American Indian passing through from Lame
Deer.
Another is a Cowboy on his way to Billings for a
livestock show, and the third passenger is a
fundamentalist Arab student, newly arrived at Montana
State University from the Middle East.
Their discussion drifts to their diverse cultures.
Soon,the two Westerners learn that the Arab is a
devout, radical Muslim and the conversation falls into
an uneasy lull.
The cowboy leans back in his chair,crosses his boots
on a magazine table and tips his big sweat-stained
hat forward over his face.
The wind outside is blowing tumbleweeds, and the
old windsock is flapping; but still no plane comes.
Finally, the American Indian clears his throat and
softly he speaks, "At one time here, my people were
many, but sadly, now we are few."
The Muslim student raises an eyebrow and leans
forward, "Once my people were few," he sneers, "and
now we are many. Why do you suppose that is?"
The Montana cowboy shifts his toothpick to one side of
his mouth and from the darkness beneath his Stetson
says in a smooth drawl, "That's 'cause
we ain't played Cowboys and Muslims yet, but I do
believe it's a-comin'."
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