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BLACK
HORSE EXTRA
For the latest edition of the Black Horse Western free online magazine please follow this trail . . . !
Stay here for the thrilling opening to
an adventure of the scallywag frontier heroine Miss Lilian Goodnight:
A novel by Chap O'Keefe in
the Black Horse Western
series,
offered through
Robert Hale,
Amazon, Amazon UKor The Book Depository
Misfit Lil’s misalliance with the reckless Texan cowboy Lucky
M’Cline began while her true friend, mature frontiersman
Jackson Farraday, was away in the Henry Mountains. Lil’s
crackshot skills saved M’Cline from the claws of a wounded,
man-hating cougar but her actions earned her the enmity of
M’Cline’s former sweetheart, Virginia Whitpath.
An unladylike fighting showdown with Virginia on Main
Street, plus shooting pranks in a saloon with M’Cline, put Lil
at the mercy of another arrival. Mesmerist Dr François
Guiscard, late of a Paris hospital infamous for the
experimental treatment of madwomen, was entrusted with
curing Lil of her behaviour problems.
Lil had wanted only fun. Could she regain her freedom
when Dr Guiscard had devilish plans to capitalize on her
unique abilities?
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LILIAN
GOODNIGHT watched him from the cover of the tall timber. He came riding up
the trail from town, young, hard-muscled and browned by exposure to sun and
wind. Tall, dark, handsome . . . all these desirable attributes. But sitting
loose and relaxed in the saddle because he was drunk, or near as damnit.
Not that Miss Goodnight would be one to condemn a body who’d gotten themself
booze blind and was maybe a-seeing elephants and a-hearing owls. She was
herself permanently in defiance of propriety; was nicknamed Misfit Lil on
the strength of it.
She’d watched the fellow before, traversing the ridge close to her lonely
shack, on his way back from a ringtailed tooter in Silver Vein to the bunkhouse
of her long-suffering and lately estranged father’s Flying G cattle outfit,
where he was on the payroll.
His name was Robert M’Cline but Ben Goodnight’s hands called him Lucky or
just ‘the kid’. In the way Lil had of assimilating the country’s gossip despite
voluntary seclusion, she’d learned the lanky cowboy was out of Texas, fleeing
north-west to escape the consequences of a career in minor crime and reckless
bravado.
He might have sounded once like someone after her own heart, but that, of
course, was committed hopelessly these days to Jackson Farraday. In her favoured
men’s duds of fringed buckskin coat and pants, Lil strove to emulate the
frontiersman. To a tolerable extent she succeeded. She was proficient in
many skills like shooting, tracking and trapping that were supposedly the
preserve of males, but any ambition to serve the army as a civilian scout,
as Jackson did, was plainly as ridiculous as her idolizing of a man twice
her age.
Heart otherwise captured, Lil nonetheless took pleasure in observing Lucky
M’Cline’s regular and careless passing through her lonesome mountain domain
and wouldn’t want to see any great harm befall him.
And on this occasion exactly that was liable to happen.
The male cougar had been skulking around her retreat for several days. An
incompetent hunter had wounded it from considerable range. His rifle’s bullet
was lodged in its shoulder. Lil had spied on the animal licking the discoloured
part with a long pink tongue, irritated by the pain.
The festering wound had plainly slowed the big cat, denying it chances of
taking normal prey: nimble deer, mountain sheep and wild goats. With hunger
griping its belly, Lil feared it had its predatory amber eyes on Rebel, the
trusty grey cow-pony which she kept stabled in the lean-to back of her shack.
But the beast was old and canny as well as vicious. Although it hadn’t eaten
in days, it fought shy of approaching too closely, of entering the confines
of
man-made buildings nestled amongst tall cottonwood trees. To wild eyes, the
place must look much like a trap, the den of a forbidding, gun-carrying she-human.
Now the smell of horse, and its association with warm meat, was wafting up
the open road that soon would wind through the dizzying pass near the seldom-used
side-trail leading to her shack.
It was a rare occurrence for a cougar to attack a man on horseback, but it wasn’t unknown.
*
Lucky M’Cline rocked – or maybe it was swayed – happily in the saddle. He
mumbled a popular cowboy ballad a mite tunelessly under his breath, slurring
many of the words.
‘Get six jolly fellers to carry my coffin,
Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall,
And give to each of them bunches of roses,
That they may not smell me as they go along. . . .’
Left largely to its own devices, his buckskin horse plodded on, following a familiar course to its home corral.
‘Had she but told me when she disordered me,
Had she but told me of it at the time,
I might have got salts and pills of white mercury,
But now I’m cut down in the height of my prime. . . .’
Lucky was lost in his rambling thoughts and lulled by his own singing, which
to him sounded purely sentimental and melodious. He didn’t see stealthy movement
atop an overhanging ledge of red rock under which he was about to pass until
it was too late.
The buckskin lifted its head and cocked its ears and came to a nervous standstill.
Lucky quit his dreaming, but his wits were too befuddled to take prompt defensive action.
One second he became aware of a sinuous tawny shape above, the long, low
body close to the rock. A swishing, four-foot tail was faintly curved near
the tip, and a small, powerfully jawed head was thrust ahead of sloping shoulders.
The nose was black, shining and all a-twitch.
The next second the cougar was springing at him. When it was already past
time to escape its attack, he yanked his shuffling horse into a squealing
turn. One hundred and eighty pounds of hissing wildcat landed on his back
from the right, hurling him from his seat.
Fortunately, his left foot came free of the stirrup. Sky and earth whirled
around him. He hit the ground, rolling. Gritty dust filled his mouth, his
nose, his eyes. Either the shock of actually being attacked by a mountain
lion or the jarring impact sobered him – rapidly.
His horse was bolting, heading back down trail, bridle and saddle-gear metal
jingling. The big cat was on its feet, a scant four or five yards away, gathering
itself up to pounce and kill. Lucky struggled to his own and made a frantic
grab for his pistol. But the cougar was on him again, bowling him and sending
the gun flying, a spinning flash of steel in the last golden light of the sun.
He was fighting for his life, rolling on the ground with the snarling beast
on top of him. Though clawed savagely, he strove to grip the beast by the
neck with both hands and succeeded. He stared into glowing amber eyes and
sweat popped from his brow.
But the squirming cat’s muzzle lowered toward him and hideous jaws gaped
open, exposing wickedly long, yellow fangs. Fetid breath fanned his face.
Raking, hooked claws, unsheathed from hard-padded paws, tore at his clothes
and the flesh of his body. A low, throttled growl like the working of machinery
sounded from its white ruffled throat.
Lucky knew then the cougar was too big, too powerful, too maddened to be
overcome. His hands and arms weakened. He shut his eyes, knowing the deadly
jaws weren’t to be warded off; were only inches from doing their bloody work.
He took a deep breath and waited for the end coming any moment.
But at the last instant, a shot rang out.
The big cougar gave a shrill scream of pain, went limp and fell from him.
He scrambled to his feet. The beast was on its back, front paws batting at
air. A second shot thudded into its body, and it went still.
He turned to face his rescuer. Though dressed like an old-time mountain man,
this was a girl . . . the strange one they called Misfit Lil, who was also
the alienated daughter of his big boss, Ben Goodnight, owner of the Flying
G. Smoke curled from the muzzle of the drawn Colt hanging in her hand.
‘An old tom,’ she said, her manner perfunctory as she swaggered up. ‘Gone
up against the like before, though it’s only when they’ve fallen on ill times
they’ll pick on a man and his horse.’
‘Howdy and thanks. That was good shootin’.’ It was scary for him to think
about, in fact. ‘Hell, supposin’ you’d made a mistake, hit me instead!’
She shrugged. ‘Small chance of it. I didn’t figure to miss and they don’t
call me the Princess of Pistoleers for nothing. Last Silver Vein gala day,
I outshot the best marksman from Fort Dennis.’
‘Still, the cougar an’ me were movin’ targets.’
‘So were the crate-loads of empty bottles I smashed in the contest. Every
one a bull’s-eye. But you’re bleeding, feller. Take you to my place for patching
up.’
He knew vaguely about the shack she lived in close by, hidden up a side-trail.
It had been vacated by an elderly mining engineer who’d retired there with
dreams of discovering mineral riches but had been forced to return East by
failing health.
They went there directly. It was a one-room cabin of roughly hewn logs with
a solid, cast-iron stove and a tin chimney. It struck him straight off that
its appointments would have been considered way too primitive for comfort
by any ordinary young woman. He was wise enough not to comment.
He said, ‘I’m Lucky M’Cline, an’ I work for your old man.’
Lil laughed without awkwardness. ‘Won’t hold that against you. I was working
as a ’puncher on a cattle ranch myself till a few weeks back, but I guess
I’d gotten bored with High Meadows since the Black Dog business
was cleaned up, so I came back here.’
She busied herself collecting a pan of water, clean cloth and a piece of soap.
‘Those scratches and abrasions need washing pronto,’ she said.
Lucky was rummaging through his memory for all the intriguing scraps he’d
heard about her since he’d arrived in this part of Utah.
How ‘Miss Lilian’ had grown up, motherless and harum-scarum, mixing with
the cow-hands on the Flying G. How her despairing father had sent East the
complete tomboy she’d become, to a high-toned Boston academy for more fitting
education and refinement. How the school had expelled her for ringleading
a group of strictly raised but inquisitive young ladies who’d embarked on
unmentionable extracurricular education – unforeseen by their rich parents
– with a willing gardener’s-boy.
How much later, and dubbed Misfit Lil, she’d paid hard for giving sass to
undeserved authority, as was her wont, and suffered no less than a
remarkable public spanking by a heavy-handed major from Washington who was
later murdered. How she’d taken up residence in this abandoned shack, reluctant
to endure the stares of a Silver Vein citizenry she was sure would never
forget the viewing of her astonishing correction.
Lucky also thought that close-up the infamous Misfit Lil was most attractive.
She had a strong face with clear grey eyes and a resolute chin. More, the
athletic body beneath her man’s clothing was feminine enough despite its
spare trimness. It would have been surely exciting to watch that immodest
spanking. . . .
‘Stop looking so – vacant,’ she ordered, as he sat on a hand-made chair with
a deerskin bottom, staring at her. ‘Take off your shirt. Your pants, too,
the left leg’s ripped and bloody.’
He felt his face grow hot.
‘Well, the shirt mebbe. . . .’
But she was already loosening his belt for him and, as he shrugged out of
the shirt, she lifted both his feet and with no ado yanked his Levis down
to his boots.
‘Hey! What d’you think you’re doin’?’
He almost ended up on the stamped-dirt floor, which would have made his embarrassment worse.
‘Oh, shush!’ she said. ‘It ain’t the first time I seen a man’s legs. ’Sides,
this is an emergency. Just think I’m a doctor or a nurse.’
He let her bathe the abrasions, the bruises and several fierce scratches.
And she did do it with a kind of professional detachment that, in the event,
seemed to border on an insult to his pride. He was more doubtful when she
produced a small round tin. Red and gold printing on a worn paper label said
it contained a cake of patented carbolic toothpowder, but it was filled with
a greasy brown, pungent ointment.
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘Snake dung,’ she said, straight-faced; then, when his jaw dropped, she laughed
lightly and added, ‘No, the stuff’s made from mashed woodland roots, herbs,
desert flowers and suchlike to an ancient Indian recipe. The army scout Jackson
Farraday gave it me. It soothes and heals miraculously. Mr Farraday speaks
seven languages and God knows how many Indian lingoes. Not only is he very
clever, he’s totally trustworthy and a good friend.’
Lucky wondered, how good a friend? Lilian Goodnight, as he’d noted, was attractive.
And he happened to have heard Farraday was absent from the Silver Vein country
in the Henry Mountains, acting as guide to a scientific expedition, as he
did from time to time. Did these circumstances make Lil available and willing
to keep other male company? After all, she was living alone and according
to his lights there couldn’t be much fun in that for anyone, man or woman,
however freakish folks might suppose them.
Furthermore, he was growing impatient with his present supposed sweetheart,
Virginia Whitpath, a ranch girl always urging him to reform his wild ways
and declaring herself unable to accept him on any basis other than church-sanctioned
marriage. Maybe dalliance with Lil while Farraday was away would make Virginia
jealous enough to change her mind. Anyway, a man was a man, and Lil – reputation
and all – had everything it would take to meet the needs of the moment.
Lucky’s record showed he set store on living for the moment.
The touch of Lil’s strong fingers, gently applying salve to his wounds, served
to push his thoughts more temptingly in the direction of better acquaintance.
God, they could have a good time getting to know one another properly!
‘You’re looking pie-eyed again,’ she accused. ‘Are you still drunk?’
‘No, the cougar shook me out of it considerable, I guess.’
He decided honesty, or a modified version of it, might serve his newly formed
objectives best. ‘I was thinkin’ this ain’t no place for a young lady to
be livin’ all by herself.’
‘Oh, I can cope all right,’ she said airily. ‘I was brought up in this country. I know it like the back of my hand.’
‘But the dangers—’
She tossed her head. ‘Like cougars. . . ? The crew at the Flying G taught
me most of what I know about them when I was scarce more’n a button. I remember
lying in bed hearing the screams of the big cats fighting for territory in
the night. Come spring, they’d be drawn by the scent of fresh afterbirth
on the calving grounds. They preyed on the new-borns. The mothers, wicked
horns or not, were terrified of the critters. When I got bigger, the men
took me hunting them, because they knew I was as good or better a marksman
than they were. Believe it – I’ve hung my fair share of cougar hides on the
barn wall to cure.’
It was no tall tale and only confirmed what he’d been told everywhere else.
She wasn’t bragging. She was a young woman of extraordinary accomplishments,
individuality and determination. She broke the mould of convention in a way
very few did. Which to him made her all the more an attraction and challenge.
‘I was thinkin’ more along the lines of lonesomeness,’ he ventured. And it
was no lie that she struck him as being naturally outgoing and personable,
not cut out for the life of a hermit. This close, she was captivating to
the point of overpowering.
She said, ‘Maybe your notion of a lonely life, unshared, is wrong. It has
its compensations. A person can get mighty tired of being gawped at and whispered
about by the crowd.’
Thinking fast, Lucky hit on the line to take if he intended to have his chance with Lil.
‘You know what I do when I feel that way? To hell with the no-accounts! I
get drunk. That or the other when there’s new girls at the bordello.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I might dress like a boy, but I don’t think the girls could do much for me, or me for them.’
He laughed. ‘Nope, reckon not, so you oughta get drunk. Folks should figure
to have a good time. They don’t need no finger-pointin’. Mebbe if you was
to go inta town partnered it’d be diff’rent. The bigots wouldn’t take no
notice, or you wouldn’t have to notice them.’
‘You might be right . . . and I did used to enjoy the top-shelf whiskey they
stocked at McHendry’s, though my being in a saloon and not a saloon-girl
often shocked strangers.’
Lucky spread his arms magnaminously.
‘Well, there it is then! You saved my life an’ you can come drinkin’ with me in town any ol’ time you like.’
‘Hmm. . . .’ Lil said, not quite knowing what she was letting herself in
for, ‘maybe I could give it a try. I’ll ride along when you pass through
next pay-day.’
*
Lil saddled Rebel and went out and rounded up Lucky’s runaway buckskin. She
caught it easily with the first throw of her rope and brought it back, still
a mite skittish, to the shack.
Lucky mounted, they said goodbye and he rode away at a cautious gait. Lil
could see it was going to be an uncomfortable journey for him to the Flying
G, with every jolting step a hurt to his bruised body. She watched him disappear
between the trees. Even after he’d gone, she continued to stare for several moments.
A small smile tugged at her lips. She went back inside, found a match, lighted
the lamp, lowered its chimney and trimmed the wick.
Had she done the right thing in accepting the invitation to drink with him
in town? At bottom, she wanted only Jackson Farraday when it came to being
escorted. Was it fair to lead on Lucky who, she suspected, had ideas that
went further than getting themselves drunk?
Still, Jackson had put himself beyond reach; he did that anyway, even when
he was around. Maybe Lucky would be a fun substitute. She had no illusions
the handsome drifter from Texas would use her for as much and as long as
it suited him. And his interest was likely to prove transitory.
Not for the first time, she mused on the inconsistency. Women were deemed
necessary to a man’s comfort and amusement, but her time’s standards embraced
the falsehood that respectable women were sexless. Even admission of fantasies
was forbidden them.
Lil was still thinking about ‘the kid’ she’d saved from the cougar when the
time came to blow out the lamp and wrap herself in her blankets.
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Praise for Chap O'Keefe and Misfit Lil
****
"You could as well have been watching a movie as
reading a book. . . O'Keefe writes westerns with the
coolness of a hired gun."
– New Zealand Herald
"Misfit Lil . . . . What a terrific name for a character,
eh? This book belongs to an endangered species: the
western. As for the story: totally professional, as you
would expect, and a lot of fun. By my count, Misfit Lil
Fights Back is the author's sixteenth book, so he knows
how to do the job. Ms Lil has appeared before, and
doubtless will again."
– Grumpy Old Bookman
". . .the quintessential action-packed western."
– Saddlebums Western Review
"Yep, pardners . . . Chap spins a mighty fine yarn that
should send yuh moseyin' on down tuh yuh local
bookshop pronto. This excitin', fast-paced, quickdrawin'
book is jest thuh thing for puttin' in the
cowhands' Christmas stockings."
– NZ Rural Press
"Misfit Lil . . . Chap O'Keefe's daring babe of the West."
– The Tainted Archive
"Misfit Lil Rides In is a fast-paced book that relates the
adventures of independent-minded, tough cowgirl
Lilian Goodnight. Lil is a fine horsewoman, expert at
roping calves and driving cows and is an excellent shot
with a pistol, too. Apparently, she can also out-cuss
her father's ranch-hands. . . . Most enjoyable and
recommended."
– Ross Morton
"Misfit Lil makes for an engaging lead character."
– Western Fiction Review
"Misfit Lil Cheats the Hangrope is a fine and eminently acceptable
western, beautifully written as always, with a nice line in
dry humour, good characterization, a whole string of neat
and imaginative sequences, and a mystery that certainly
baffled this reader right to the end. Refreshing and
bold . . . it takes western fiction in an exciting new
direction and this, I believe, is a major selling-point."
– David Whitehead
"The Misfit Lil series is a favourite amongst western fans, and
no wonder. Each book in the series – all are standalone novels
though – delivers
equal parts fun and adventure."
– Jack Martin, author of The Tarnished Star and Arkansas Smith
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MORE EXCERPTS
Shootout at Hellyer's Creek
Liberty and a Law Badge
Faith and a Fast Gun
Blast to Oblivion
Misfit Lil Cleans Up
A Gunfight Too Many
Misfit Lil Hides Out
Misfit Lil Cheats the Hangrope
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