Three strangers strike up a conversation in the passenger lounge in Bozeman, Montana, awaiting their flights. One is an American Indian passing through from Lame Deer. Another was a cowboy on his way to Billings, Montana for a stock 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 Moslem. The conversation falls into an uneasy lull. The cowboy leans back in his chair, crosses his boots on a magazine table, tips his big sweat-stained hat forward over his face. The wind outside blows tumbleweeds, and the old windsock flaps; but no plane comes. Finally, the American Indian clears his throat and softly, he speaks: "Once, my people were many...now we are few." The Moslem 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 Moslems yet".