Cowboys and Indians

While driving alone through vast Montanan landscapes I decided to stop for coffee in Billings, of all places.  A skeleton of former factory glory, Billings lacked character, lacked charm, lacked any reason to survive.  But they had darn good coffee.  After my cup of joe I stood by my car, stretching.  An indigent Native American in ripped and soiled jeans approached me with fearful and bloodshot eyes. He told me his mother was down the road, dying on the 4^th floor of the hospital.  He wept openly.  I consoled him.  I put my arm around him.  He said he was all she had left.  His brother had died in the rodeo years ago, he said.  I told him to go be with her.  He said he couldn’t bear to see her this way.  I urged him to see her.  He said ok.  We embraced—me, a white medical student from Michigan just passing through, and him, a poor Native American stranger from Billings.  His tears were on my shoulder. Then he asked for money, and I said no. Move along.