would make sense. All of a sudden, I figured I could tell you not to swim but, well, it went all wrong-" he let his words trail off, as if they had cost him much effort to get out.

"That was a helluva way to get acquainted," I said, with feeling. "You mean I can go swimming today, without poisoning anybody?"

"Sure, go ahead. The water's great this morning."

"By the way, my name's Don-Don Feiler," I said, squatting beside him and extending my hand. My God, he's got a big hand, I thought to myself. He shook hands firmly but not with a bone-crusher grip; no need for this guy to prove his strength to anybody.

"Bill Johnson," he said. "Glad to meet you."

I stripped and dived in, gliding below the surface to let the coolness soak into all the pores of my skin. When I surfaced, the ranger was sitting crosslegged by the pool, staring down at me. "What's wrong with your leg?" he asked. "I noticed you were sort of dragging it."

When I had told him, he sat and thought for a moment. "You'd better rest up awhile," he began, "that's a stiff climb above the Springs. Cleo can get you back to my place and maybe we can tape it up for you. I've got some wide tape for making splints."

I climbed out of the water and sat there, watching the bright drops roll off my body. "A little swimming sure helps get the kinks out," I said, rubbing the kneecap and swinging my leg experimentally.

Bill was struggling with some emotion so painfully that his face reflected it. "You know why I followed you yesterday-" I could tell he was trying very hard to choose the right words-He lapsed into silence, staring solemnly at me as if he hoped I had grasped some meaning in what he said.

To me, the saddest thing in the world is when two people try to get to know each other and, for fear, or simple ignorance, they can't bridge the gap and go their separate ways, each feeling a private, painful loss. Some time ago. I decided such a thing would never happen for me simply because I failed to say what I had on my mind, I would rather stick my neck out too far, or shock somebody, rather than say nothing at all. So here goes nothing, I thought to myself.

"Don't struggle for words," I began. "Frankly, if it had been me, instead of you, I would have followed you, and probably done the same things you did. Only in my case it would be because I'm homosexual." There, it was out, and the worst that could happen would be that he would beat me over the head.

Instead, he grinned and held out his hand. "Shake," he said. "It's good to meet somebody who's honest about it. I guess it takes one to know one, doesn't it?" He pointed at himself and smiled.

About Our Authors

DON RIFLE is an anthropologist who has spent several years working among the Indians of the American Southwest. His most recent story in ONE was published in June, 1955.

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