Their discussion drifts to their diverse cultures.
Soon the two Westerners learn that the Arab is a devout, radical Muslim.
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 blows tumbleweeds, the old windsock flaps, but no plane comes.
Finally, the American Indian clears his throat and softly speaks.
"Once, my people were many... 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."