THREE STRANGERS
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.
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 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'."
