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Cowboy
Three strangers strike up a conversation in the airport 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 Billingsfor a livestock show and the third passenger
is a fundamentalist Arab student, newly arrived at
MontanaStateUniversityfrom 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 shifts 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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"That's a joke... I say, that's a joke, son"
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