I saw the cemetery up on the hill before I saw the town. It wasn't much of a cemetery, never had been, but even from here I could see it wasn't much of a town any more either. There was but one street, Front Street, and that was empty; I couldn't see a living soul, even in the shade of the porches, but I could hear the piano. The tune was unfamiliar, and the player was pretty damn good. The saloon was next to the old stable which had once been the swing station; there was one man behind the bar, and no-one at the piano.

"What'll it be, Mister?"

I looked at the barman who was sitting on a stool watching the door. He looked to be a few years older than me, and looked a few years older every step I took in his direction. "Feed and water for my horse, mostly."

"Water I got, if your horse ain’t partic’ler, but no feed. You want a drink?”

"Stable closed?"

"Three or four years, now," he replied, as he slowly walked behind the bar. "There are ranches hereabouts, but hardly nobody comes across the river. Folks’re scared of the lady.”

I looked around the saloon, wondering how long it had been since a lady, or anyone who claimed to be a lady, had been in town - unless he was referring to the painting above the bar. I don’t know if she was a lady, but she was sure enough a woman, and even ladies have to be naked sometime. The piano was being played by some roll of paper, playing the only tune it knew, and the whisky was vile stuff, made from cask alcohol and water and God alone knew what else, but I drank the glass down, somehow. “Tell me about the lady.”

“Well, I ain’t never seen her mesel’, but they say she comes down to the river and has herself a bath, sometimes. Beautiful gal, they say, though it’s mostly women who sees her and tells the story, and nobody ever seems to see her long or up close.”

“What does she look like?”

“Long dark hair,” he said, softly. “They all agree on that. Hair down past her waist, so it waves in the water when she sits down. Pretty face, but sad: some say she’s crying, or maybe singing something sad, though nobody ever hears the words… leastways, nobody remembers them.” He shrugged. “Mebbe it’s some Indian language, or Mexican or something, but most folks say she’s pale, and some say her eyes are blue or green.”

“Does she ever speak to anyone?”

“Not that I ever heard. Most folks say as how she might turn and look at them, then she disappears into the water. Guess she don’t want them looking at her tits - and I hear tell they’re nice tits. You want another whisky?”

I slid a coin across the bar. “And this is out by the ford? Either the water must be deeper than I remember, or she must be as skinny as a snake.”

He shrugged again, then poured me another whisky. “All I know is what folks say. I wouldn’t advise you to go looking for her, though.”

“Why not?”

He was silent for a while, then poured himself a glass of whisky. “I’ve seen three men, boys almost, young like you, who went to the river looking for her. One of ‘em was likkered up and he drowned, and he was lucky. Two… two were yaybird nekkid and ripped open, from their neckerchiefs down to where the good Lord split ‘em. The doc told me that maybe they drowned first, and lucky for them, ‘cause if they’d lived they’d have been steers.”