Gotta love cowboys

Three strangers strike up a conversation in the airport passenger lounge one day while awaiting their respective flights. One was an American Indian passing through from the Four Corners. Another was a Cowboy on his way to Billings Montana for a livestock show and the third was a fundamentalist Arab student, newly arrived from the Middle East. Their discussion drifted to their diverse cultures. Soon, the two Westerners learned that the Arab is a devout, radical Muslim and the conversation falls into an uneasy lull.

The cowboy leaned back in his chair, crossed his boots on a magazine table and tipped his big sweat-stained hat forward over his face. The wind outside is blowing tumbleweeds around, and the old windsock is flapping; but their flights are late so they just sit there devoid of conversation. Finally, the American Indian cleared his throat and softly he said, “At one time here, my people were many, but sadly, now we are few.”

The Muslim student raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, “Once my people were few,” he sneered, “and now we are many. Why do you suppose that is?”

The Cowboy shifted his toothpick to one side of his mouth and from the darkness beneath his Stetson said in a smooth drawl, “That’s ’cause we ain’t played Cowboys and Muslims yet, but I do believe it’s a-comin’.”