"I Believe its a coming."

Three strangers strike up a conversation in the airport lounge in
Bozeman, Montana, awaiting their flights. One is an American Indian,
passing thru from Lame Deer. Another is a cowboy on his way to Billings
for a livestock show. And the third is a fundamentalist Arab student
from the Middle East, newly arrived at Montana State University.

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 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


You are probably right.
I wish you weren't. It is really about time we learned to play nicely. All of us.

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