CHAPTER EIGHT
A little after eleven a.m. on the outskirts of Pueblo, Colorado, Slim Daniels reached for another Budweiser from the cooler and handed it to his best friend, Wally Dunn, before taking one for himself. That was the great thing about fishing, it was never too early for a beer. The current of the Arkansas River was a little calmer today than it had been a few days ago when they had taken Dunn’s little boat out, so maybe today they would catch a few—not that it mattered. As the saying goes—a bad day of fishing is better than a good day at work.
The fourteen-foot boat bobbed up and down in a soothing rhythm as Slim cast his line toward a deeper part of the river, where the two of them had successful catches before. They’d tied their towline to one of the pylons holding up the sm
