into the paper products rack. He came up kicking Styrofoam cups and clutching a fifty-pack of
fluorescent-colored straws. Angry words screamed out in a southeast Asian dialect bounced between the walls of the small store.
Laramie pulled himself off a cardboard Budweiser girl who sported shorts meant to make Daisy Duke look modest.
The second shotgun blast from outside the minimart didn’t vibrate like the first. When Hap retrieved his black hat from the
rack of cake doughnuts, the quiet ding of a bell seemed out of place.
Laramie glanced over at the unscathed microwave. “Your burrito’s ready.”
Both cowboys scurried to the front door in time to witness a petite Asian woman in black jeans and a Hawaiian blouse brandishing
a pump shotgun. Only a few neon lights remained to mark the route of a would-be thief. Other than a distant train whistle
the street was silent and empty.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Hap asked.
She spun around, then lowered the weapon. Gold-framed glasses perched on the end of her tiny nose. “It happened again.” Deep
wrinkles around her eyes tightened.
Hap stepped up beside her. “Did you get robbed?”
“He tried. I think it was the same man as last month. He’s out on bail awaiting trial. I am sick and tired of this.”
Laramie studied the hole that had been an eight-by-six-foot plate-glass window. “What can we do to help you?”
The lady tiptoed through the broken glass to the front door. “You want to buy a minimart, so I can retire? I’m too old to
put up with this. I need to phone the police.”
The summer night air smelled like a combination of a snack bar at the ballpark and the floor of a movie theater.
Hap peered through the dark shadows of the empty Laredo street. “What’d he look like?”
“Like a man in a ski mask. Were you serious about the offer to help?”
Hap glanced over at his partner. Laramie nodded and said, “I was taught to always help a lady in distress.”
“Did your father teach you that?” she asked.
“My mother. She is in distress most of the time.”
The woman held out her hand to Laramie. “My name is Sam.”
“Is that short for Samantha?”
“It’s short for Vingh Duc Sam.” The lady with short salt-and-pepper hair took a long, deep breath, then dialed 911.
Laramie and Hap had restacked the antifreeze, scraped up the Little Debbies, and swept most of the broken glass on the inside
of the store when the police finished their reports.
Sam clutched her arms. “I expected this cleanup to take all night. I phoned my daughter earlier to come over and help when
she gets off work. You boys are like angels from heaven.”
“Hap is often mistaken for an angel,” Laramie chided. “It must be the cheap mustache. What did the police tell you?” He fought
a rising emotion and questioned why the woman had to run a minimart alone after dark. In his mind, every woman ought to have
a safe place at night. Especially those married to drunks.
Sam kicked at a piece of broken glass with her Nike tennis shoe. “They think they’ll be able to track him down. I remembered
the license plate number on his getaway vehicle. ‘Wyoming, 2–4570.’”
“Wyomin’?” Hap’s chin dropped. “That’s my license number.”
They raced out to the gas pumps. Hap punched his fist into the lip of a plastic trash can. “He stole my dadgum truck, Laramie.
That two-bit thief stole my truck!”
It was after 1:00 A.M . by the time the police filed the stolen-vehicle report. Laramie and Hap nailed plywood over the broken window.
“I ain’t never had someone steal my rig before. Have you, Laramie?”
“Quincy Bob stole the Circle A crummie one time when you were up in Alberta. But he was too soused to have a clue what he
was doing. I had to walk fourteen miles back to the ranch. They found the crummie two days later parked in front of the White
Horse Inn, with Quincy Bob asleep on the balcony.”
“The White Horse
fluorescent-colored straws. Angry words screamed out in a southeast Asian dialect bounced between the walls of the small store.
Laramie pulled himself off a cardboard Budweiser girl who sported shorts meant to make Daisy Duke look modest.
The second shotgun blast from outside the minimart didn’t vibrate like the first. When Hap retrieved his black hat from the
rack of cake doughnuts, the quiet ding of a bell seemed out of place.
Laramie glanced over at the unscathed microwave. “Your burrito’s ready.”
Both cowboys scurried to the front door in time to witness a petite Asian woman in black jeans and a Hawaiian blouse brandishing
a pump shotgun. Only a few neon lights remained to mark the route of a would-be thief. Other than a distant train whistle
the street was silent and empty.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Hap asked.
She spun around, then lowered the weapon. Gold-framed glasses perched on the end of her tiny nose. “It happened again.” Deep
wrinkles around her eyes tightened.
Hap stepped up beside her. “Did you get robbed?”
“He tried. I think it was the same man as last month. He’s out on bail awaiting trial. I am sick and tired of this.”
Laramie studied the hole that had been an eight-by-six-foot plate-glass window. “What can we do to help you?”
The lady tiptoed through the broken glass to the front door. “You want to buy a minimart, so I can retire? I’m too old to
put up with this. I need to phone the police.”
The summer night air smelled like a combination of a snack bar at the ballpark and the floor of a movie theater.
Hap peered through the dark shadows of the empty Laredo street. “What’d he look like?”
“Like a man in a ski mask. Were you serious about the offer to help?”
Hap glanced over at his partner. Laramie nodded and said, “I was taught to always help a lady in distress.”
“Did your father teach you that?” she asked.
“My mother. She is in distress most of the time.”
The woman held out her hand to Laramie. “My name is Sam.”
“Is that short for Samantha?”
“It’s short for Vingh Duc Sam.” The lady with short salt-and-pepper hair took a long, deep breath, then dialed 911.
Laramie and Hap had restacked the antifreeze, scraped up the Little Debbies, and swept most of the broken glass on the inside
of the store when the police finished their reports.
Sam clutched her arms. “I expected this cleanup to take all night. I phoned my daughter earlier to come over and help when
she gets off work. You boys are like angels from heaven.”
“Hap is often mistaken for an angel,” Laramie chided. “It must be the cheap mustache. What did the police tell you?” He fought
a rising emotion and questioned why the woman had to run a minimart alone after dark. In his mind, every woman ought to have
a safe place at night. Especially those married to drunks.
Sam kicked at a piece of broken glass with her Nike tennis shoe. “They think they’ll be able to track him down. I remembered
the license plate number on his getaway vehicle. ‘Wyoming, 2–4570.’”
“Wyomin’?” Hap’s chin dropped. “That’s my license number.”
They raced out to the gas pumps. Hap punched his fist into the lip of a plastic trash can. “He stole my dadgum truck, Laramie.
That two-bit thief stole my truck!”
It was after 1:00 A.M . by the time the police filed the stolen-vehicle report. Laramie and Hap nailed plywood over the broken window.
“I ain’t never had someone steal my rig before. Have you, Laramie?”
“Quincy Bob stole the Circle A crummie one time when you were up in Alberta. But he was too soused to have a clue what he
was doing. I had to walk fourteen miles back to the ranch. They found the crummie two days later parked in front of the White
Horse Inn, with Quincy Bob asleep on the balcony.”
“The White Horse
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