The Black-hearted Filly

The Adventures of Will Jones by Greg Barron

From the age of twelve or thirteen, Christian Jones taught Will to load, handle and shoot the ‘Pattern 56’ Enfield muzzle-loader that was used to dispatch wild dogs or dying stock on the farm. The old weapon kicked like a goat, and bellowed black powder smoke and noise. The lead ball it fired, however, struck with brutal effect. An animal on the receiving end was given a merciful end. The grey kangaroos that ravaged the corn fields were easy game, and Will could shoot and field dress them, then hang the carcasses in the meat shed for butchering.

On Sunday afternoons he would fish for eels in the stream that formed the western boundary, and bring them home skinned and filleted. Swamp hens and ducks were sought after for the cooking pot, and were sometimes run down with help from the farm dogs.

On the day of Will’s fourteenth birthday, he rose early to milk the house cow, and while he hunted the young jersey into the bails, roped her in and arranged the stool and bucket, he started wondering what gift he might receive for his birthday. He wasn’t expecting too much – maybe a shirt, or possibly a pair of boots. If he was lucky, he guessed it might be the new skinning knife he’d wanted. The blade on his old one had worn down from constant grinding.

Finished the milking at last, he pushed the young cow back out into the paddock and cleaned up. When it was done, he stood leaning on a rail, enjoying the sight of the mist drifting over the rugged hills at the back of the property. Birthdays, he was thinking, were often disappointing. Making a living here was hard work, and there was no money for expensive gifts.

Back inside, the pot-belly was hot, and the kitchen smelled of bacon, fresh bread, fried tomatoes and eggs. Lainey was already at the table. Will lifted the iron bucket of creamy milk onto the bench and his mother grabbed him in a fierce embrace, kissing the top of his head. ‘Happy birthday,’ she said.

‘Happy birthday,’ chorused Lainey, then stuck her tongue out at him. Will’s father was, strangely, missing.

‘Where’s Da?’ Will asked.

‘Oh, he’ll be back in a minute, I expect. Get started an’ leave plenty for when he comes.’

Will was on his second helping when there was the sound of hooves and Will’s dad stamped in, blue work shirt tucked neatly into his dungarees. ‘Fourteen-year-old, eh?’ was all he said, then ruffled Will’s hair.

They ate together, all four of them, and after breakfast they moved to the sitting room, with its smells of old upholstery and furniture polish. On the tea table sat a very large package, enclosed in a canvas chaff bag. Will almost stopped breathing with anticipation. He looked at his mother, who gave him a nod, ‘Open it up, lad.’

Will read the card, then carefully, not hurrying, unwrapped the canvas. Inside was a saddle, beautifully crafted, of glossy dark leather, conditioned with neatsfoot oil and finished with beeswax. Most importantly it was made in the new, Australian style, with large knee pads, a long, deep flap and a wide seat.

Nothing of that quality had been seen on the farm before. It was a thing of beauty, the work of a true craftsman. It was the promise of adventure; of adult life beckoning, yet Will was puzzled. The family had only one riding horse left, a lazy old gelding named Flint. The others had died off over the years, and not been replaced.

‘There be summat else for you, ootside,’ said his father.

Mystified, Will left the saddle on the table, and followed his parents through the kitchen door, past sparse herb and vegetable gardens to the broadest part of the drive.

There, highlighted in the morning sun, tied by a greenhide halter to a post, was a long-legged bay filly, very dark on the tail, mane and lower legs. Her eyes were huge, glossy and curious as she turned to look at Will.

He stopped for a moment, staring back. Surely this beautiful creature could not have anything to do with him?

‘Yow’d best go back inside an’ fetch that saddle,’ said Christian. ‘The oss is yours.’

‘You really mean it?’ Will said, turning to his beaming mother, who confirmed it with a nod. On his way back in to get the saddle, passing his just-as-mystified sister, Will could only wonder how his parents had managed to save for such a gift – a quality saddle, and a well-presented filly whose good breeding was obvious.

He hurried inside, returning with the saddle, carrying it with the bridge on his shoulder like he had seen drovers and stockmen do in town. He stood on tiptoe to place it gently on the filly’s back.

‘She’s a beauty aye?’ said his Dad.

‘Sure she is,’ said Will.

‘Got her from Abner Miles’s place.’

Will raised an eyebrow. Abner Miles ran a horse breeding property five miles up the road, and his mounts were justly famous. They dominated racetracks and stock camps from the Lachlan to the Macquarie. This fact made Will wonder again at how his parents had managed to pay for such a gift.

Tacking the filly up, Will could feel the restrained energy under her skin – and the way she tensed when he tightened the girth. Yet, she accepted the saddle’s weight and while she chewed away at her bit, and stamped now and then, she made no further protest.

‘Tek care wif ‘er,’ said his father ‘I aren’t ridden her myse’n, but they say she’s a tad green.’

Will hardly listened. Nothing bothered him right now, not with his own horse and saddle and the promise of a new and exciting life on the horizon. Even when the filly stretched her long neck around to attempt to nip him on the arm, he avoided the manoeuvre and tapped her fondly on the shoulder.

‘I think she likes ya, Will,’ Lainey offered.

Finally, with the saddle straight, and the stirrups adjusted, Will swung up and took his seat. So far, so good. He nudged the filly’s flank with his heels and told her to walk. She managed a few slow paces before stopping and lowering her head. When Will used the reins to try to bring it up she pig-rooted, throwing both hind legs into the air.

‘Yahoo,’ yelled Lainey, ‘she’s green orright.’

Will knew a little about buckjumpers, and he was right to understand that the filly had more tricks in store. First she ran a pace or two, tossed her head, raised her front legs wildly, then set them down again. At this point, Will was doing well, his thighs wedged hard against the knee pads, holding the reins with one hand and using the other as a counterweight.

Her next strategy, however, was to spring upwards, with all four legs in the air, arching her back like a caterpillar, the hairs of her mane standing on end like nails. Before Will knew what was happening, he was flying through the air, landing in a bruised tangle in the dust, staring at the horse as she ran off, still bucking like a wild thing.

Christian came over and offered a hand to his son to help him up. ‘Abner sold ‘er to me at an uncommon good price,’ he said. ‘They was callin’ ‘er the black-hearted filly. No ‘orseman in the outfit cud ride her. I figured yow’ve got time on yer hands, an’ will either tame er or break yer neck along the way.’

‘What about the saddle?’ Will asked.

Christian Jones looked thoughtful. ‘Well, that were part’a the deal. Like a wager.’

‘A wager?’

‘Ar. If you can tame the oss in a month, an’ you aren’t dead, you get to keep the saddle.’

Lainey was laughing fit to bust as Will tramped after the filly with a determined look in his eye. No way was he going to let a cranky horse cheat him out of the best birthday gift he’d ever had.

2026 Greg Barron

New chapter soon.

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