Five more casts failed to produce a strike and Chuck’s confidence started to crumble.
“Let me have a try.” Slim took the homemade pole and moved downstream to a point where the rays of the sun streamed warmly on the water. The fly flicked the surface of the water, again and then again. On the fourth cast there was a flash of silver and a trout was hooked hard.
“You’ve got him, you’ve got him!” shouted Chuck, dancing along the bank oblivious of his tender feet. “Don’t lose him.”
“I won’t unless your shouting scares him away.”
The trout was a beauty, at least a pound and a half if Slim was any judge, and he played the fish carefully, finally drawing it close enough to the bank so Chuck could reach down and get it in his hands.
“What a beauty,” said the Circle Four cowboy as he held the trout in his hands. “Some people have all the luck.”
“You mean some people have all the skill,” grinned Slim, casting the fly back into the now quiet waters of the pool. He was patient and a fair judge of trout water, the result being that a few minutes later he got another strike, but this one finally eluded him. Slim got a third strike and this time landed his fish, which was larger than the first.
Returning to camp, they set about the task of cleaning the fish. Old Bill had left them plenty of food, and at sundown they stretched out beside the fire to enjoy their evening meal. The trout was delicious and there was plenty for both.
Supper over, they lolled on their blankets, watching the last light of day fade and the evening star brighten.
The night was uneventful and in the morning Slim again fished the trout pool. His luck held with him and he managed to land five trout in a little more than an hour.