Three strangers

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 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 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'."