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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 Muslim 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 Muslim 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 around, 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'."