>Cowboys
>
>Three strangers strike up a conversation in the air****t passenger lounge
in
>Bozeman, Montana, awaiting their 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 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 ****fts his toothpick to one side of his mouth and from
>the darkness beneath his Stetson says in a drawl,
>
>"That's 'cause we ain't played Cowboys and Muslims yet,
>but I do believe it's a-comin'."
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