At a small terminal in the Texas Panhandle, three strangers are awaiting their shuttle flight. One is a Native American passing through from Oklahoma. Another, a local ranch hand on his way to Ft. Worth for a stock show. The third passenger is an Arab student, newly arrived at the Texas oil patch from the Middle East.
To pass the time they strike up a conversation on recent events, and the discussion drifts to their diverse cultures. Soon the Westerners learn that the Arab is a devout Muslim. The conversation falls into an uneasy lull.
The cowpoke 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 Native American clears his throat and softly, he speaks: ‘Once my people were many, Now we are few.’
The Muslim 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 Texan shifts the toothpick to one side of his mouth and from the darkness beneath his stetson says, ‘That’s ’cause we ain’t played Cowboys and Muslims yet.’