Three Travelers...
 

Three strangers strike up a conversation in the passenger lounge in Bozeman, Montana, awaiting their flights.

One is an American Indian passing through from Lame Deer, Montana.

Another is a cowboy on his way to Billings, Montana for a stock show.

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. 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 Indian sits still, unblinking, staring at the sky.

The wind outside blows tumbleweeds, and the old windsock flaps, but no plane comes.

Finally, the American Indian clears his throat and softly he speaks: "Once my people were many. 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 the other side of his mouth and from the darkness beneath his Stetson says in a drawl, "That's because we ain't played Cowboys and Muslims yet."