Free Deadman's Crossing by Joe R. Lansdale Page A

Jebidiah removed the barrier from the setting room door, and as he did, the clock ticked eight-thirty. Dol and the other ghosts returned to what substituted for lives; the limbo of the hotel; the existence of the not quite gone and the not quite present.
    Jebidiah led his horse out of the sitting room, into the saloon. In there they watched the ghosts for a moment, and then Jebidiah took a candle from one of the tables where it was melted to a saucer, broke the saucer free, and put the candle in his pocket. He found two kerosene lamps with kerosene still in them, and gave those to Mary to carry. He and Mary went up the stairs to the hotel room where Jebidiah’s whisky resided. Jebidiah led his horse up there with him. The animal was reluctant at first, but then made the stairs easily and finally arrived at the landing, snorting in protest.
    When Jebidiah looked down on the hotel, the dark fog had laid down on the floor like a black velvet carpet, was slowly seeping out of sight into the wood.
    “You don’t go far without that horse, do you?” Mary said, causing Jebidiah to turn his head and look.
    “I’ll save him if I can. No use leaving him to be eaten. He’s the best horse I ever had. Smart. Brave. Worth more than most humans.”
    “That may be true, but he just shit on the floor. And it smells like a horse stall now.”
    “We’ll live with it.”
    They went into the bedroom, Jebidiah leading his horse. He let go of the animal and took Mary’s umbrella off the bed and pulled out his pocket knife, and began to whittle pieces off of it.
    “I’m glad you got a hobby,” Mary said. “Me, I’m scared shitless.”
    “And so am I. Whittling relaxes me. Especially when it has a purpose.”
    “What purpose?”
    “These little shards of oak. For it to affect the wolves, it has to bear some of the wood’s insides. Oak itself, that doesn’t do it. Shaved oak. Sharpened oak. Anything that takes the husk off and shows the meat of the tree.”
    “What you gonna do, chase them down and poke them with that little stuff? I don’t see you’re doing no good.”
    “I’m going to take these little fragments, and I’m going to make them smaller. Then I’m going to take my bullets, use my pocket knife to noodle a small hole in the tips of the loads. I’m going to put wood fragments in those little holes, then, I’m going to take this—”
    He produced the candle from his pocket. “I’m going to seal the little wood shaving stuffed holes with wax. When I shoot these guns, the oak goes into the wolves along with the bullets.”
    “Ain’t you the smart one?” Mary said, and she took a swig from Jebidiah’s bottle.
    He took it from her. “No more. We had best have our wits about us.”
    Mary said, “You want, you could knock you off a piece. No charge.”
    “I would hardly have my wits about me doing that, now would I?”
    “Reckon not. Just a friendly offer.”
    “And a fine one. But I fear I’ll have to pass.”
    Jebidiah went back to whittling, but not before he waved a match under the bottom of the candle and stuck it up on the nightstand and lit the wick. When he finished whittling, the wax was soft. He went to work inserting the miniature wood shavings, sealing them with wax. Mary helped.
    Howls came down from the piney hills and filled the streets and the Gentleman’s Hotel.
    “They’re coming,” Jebidiah said.
    Jebidiah went out on the landing, looked down. The ghosts had gone, except Dol, and he had wandered behind the bar and laid down flat on the floor. The wolves couldn’t hurt him, but Jebidiah assumed he didn’t want to see them. Dead or not, he still knew fear. Jebidiah watched his silent, still, white figure for a while, then returned to the room and closed the door. He hefted the revolvers in their holsters. They were packing his special prepared bullets. He had done the same for his Winchester ammunition. And he had done it for his gun belt reloads until the wax ran out. The umbrella he