The Adventures of Will Jones

THE ADVENTURES OF WILL JONES BY GREG BARRON

Scarcely twelve months later, Will, believing himself to be a man, left his school days behind him. Asking around, he landed a job with a fencing crew run by a local boss called Clarry Martin. Will already knew about hard work, but he was about to learn a whole lot more.

He became the junior member of a team of tough, physical men, who spat and swore and smoked and ribbed each other – and didn’t mind a punch up when riled, either. The workplace was the open air, filled with smells of tar and freshly split timber, and the rumble of bullock teams; whips cracking and shouts ringing out through the trees.

Fence posts were usually made from hollow ironbark logs, sawn into six-foot lengths, then split, usually starting from an existing crack. On big logs they sometimes used a charge of black powder to open up the split, then employed wedges, pounded in with heavy mallets. A good-sized log could yield more than one hundred posts.

Rails were made from solid slabs of the same timber; or sometimes blue gum. Splitting logs into slabs, however, was different to the simpler process, traditionally used on softwoods, of halving and quartering. A ten-foot section of log was dragged up with bullocks or draught horses, manoeuvred with crowbars onto a bed of supports, then stripped of bark. A broad axe or saw was used to open the first cut on one end, some four inches down. Wedges were driven in, then moved in relays all the way along the log, the timber creaking as it opened up. Often, running an axe head along the split was needed to sever the last strands of fractured wood. Sometimes the split would try to follow a knot and go too shallow or too deep, and a saw was used to straighten it up. The difference between a straight-grained log and a knotty one could be an hour of swearing, cursing, blisters and blunted axe-heads.

Once the slab was off, a new cut was begun a few inches below, and the process repeated. The middle slabs could be so wide, that they would be split again to make two rails.

Post and rail fences required holes to be dug with crowbars and spades, the posts inserted and the soil packed down, then the rails morticed into place. Clarry Martin ran a tight outfit, with everything checked and measured, levelled and solid.

Being the youngest and newest member of the crew, Will was given very little of the finer work to do. Digging, swinging the mallet, and sharpening axe heads on a hand-turned grindstone was his responsibility, and each of the fencers had their own requirements when it came to the nature of the edge.

If there was no cook, (and cooks came and went like ground-mist in the valleys), Will had to take on these duties too – before and after the day’s work was done. This was a craft he knew little about, but he learned quickly, spurred by the sarcastic comments and insults thrown by the men sampling his amateur stews and johnny-cakes.

‘Can’t cook to save ‘is miserable life,’ one man complained.

‘What’s this slop, eh lad?’ said another.

Will was bound to carry out the orders of any man in the camp, no matter how unreasonable and at any hour. Then, with everything else done, it was his job to dig latrine pits and see the horses. Heat and thirst were Will’s constant companions, and if he dared to question one of the older men he’d get a shove in the chest for his trouble, landing in a tangle in the dirt. At night Will arranged his bedroll and slept on the fringes of the camp – only the top men had positions near the fire – his hands bent like claws as if they still held a crowbar or mallet handle, new blisters having sprouted over the previous day’s crop.

On the edge of exhausted sleep, he’d listen to the older men and their yarns – eye opening stuff for a lad of limited experience. They talked of brothels in Woolloomooloo, floods on far-flung rivers like the Paroo or the Richmond, stations out west where rain scarcely fell, fights and friendships, accidents and even, for those who had experienced it, wars in foreign countries Will had scarcely heard of.

Most of the time, except on the most urgent jobs, the team were dismissed on Saturdays at noon. As soon as the break was called, Will mounted up and hurried home.

This was, in itself, a pleasure. The horse that had once been referred to as the black-hearted filly had grown into a handsome mare that he had named Nea, after the Governor of the Colony’s wife. The mare was still prone to a buck or two early in the day, but most of the time she was a pleasure to ride. More than a few passing stockmen had asked if Will would sell either the horse or his one-of-a-kind stock saddle.

‘Not at any price,’ was his ready answer.

Arriving at home in the middle afternoon, Will felt an overwhelming sense of well-being. The familiar sights and smells soothed the fatigue and stress of the working week. The difficulties of his new job became a source of pride as his mother clucked over how lean and muscled he had become. Most importantly he would give her his earnings, a princely fifteen shillings each week, then help his father with running in the ewes, sowing corn or hoeing weeds.

Will treasured every moment of those short weekends. Often there was a dance at the Wesleyan Hall, presided over by a fiddler, trumpeter and piano accordion or any similar combination of local musicians. Will joined in the barn and square dances, and enjoyed the chance to catch up with old school friends.

Increasingly present, in those days, was Lainey’s new boyfriend. Luke Phillips was a Methodist, as straight-laced as Lainey was wild, with a family who abstained from alcohol and neither did they approve of violence or wild ways. Lainey, even at her tender age, was quite interested in both.

Luke’s main attraction, it seemed, was a square jaw and piercing blue eyes. Will liked him a lot, but knew deep down that they were an odd couple, who would never last.

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One Saturday, Will rode Nea home, untacked and watered her, then walked inside to find his father sitting on a chair rather than working outside. He was also, strangely, very quiet. After dinner, Christian asked Will and Lainey to stay at the table while he fetched a letter, unfolding it on the surface in front of him.

During a long pause, Christian’s work-hardened hands sat uncomfortably on the table. His eyes roved constantly to Amelia then back to the two siblings. The letter was thick, at least four or five pages. Will had a sense of impending doom, like something terrible was about to happen.

‘It’s a letter from Home,’ said Amelia.

Will knew what she meant by that word. To his mother, England had always been home, and as a child he had listened, spellbound as she spoke wistfully of lanes lined with the orange leaves of autumn, cliffs made solely of white chalk, and castles so old they seemed to crumble in front of your eyes.

Christian took up the letter and read it out from beginning to end. His school years had been few, and he was unfamiliar with many words. His Black-country accent made even those he knew hard to understand. He stopped reading completely at times, like a rock climber figuring out how to tackle a particularly nasty boulder. It was hard to listen to, the meaning harder to grasp, but all the while Will became more certain that this missive was of great significance to his life.

When he was done, Lainey blurted out, ‘So what does that all mean?’

‘Your grandfather has died,’ her mother explained. ‘And your uncle needs help to run the family business. Your grandfather was a grocer as you know, but ‘is interests have expanded in recent years — stores in three villages now. Your father and I must take passage back over and assist.’

Will thought quickly. He felt no sadness for the loss of a relative he had never met, only calculating how this change would affect his life. ‘I want to stay here,’ he said, with his usual lack of guile.

Christian’s lips turned down like the jowls of an English bulldog. ‘Thy mother ‘an I did expect that, a terrible blow though it is.’

Will saw a chance of escape from the drudgery of his work. ‘What about the farm? Can I run it while you’re gone?’

‘Nay lad, the money will be needed. It must be sold.’

Will felt his world crashing down all around him – the impending loss of both his parents, and the glorious acreage he had grown up on. ‘How soon will this happen?’

‘As soon as all the arrangements can be made,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s a gentler life, back home. Going back appeals to me a great deal, though of course we have all put our hearts and souls into this place. Wouldn’t you consider coming with us?’ She seemed to read Will’s face. ‘I understand that you are working and can make your own decisions, but …’ she reached out and touched his hand. ‘We will miss you terribly if you stay. Lainey will come with us, of course, and finish her education at a suitable ladies’ college.’

Lainey’s eyes had been widening by the moment. ‘I won’t do nothin’ of the sort,’ she spat.

Christian Jones raised his forefinger in the air. ‘Y’am fourteen-year-old, an’ will do what we decide. That means comin’ ‘ome with us.’

Lainey didn’t say another word, just sat chewing her lip and shaking her head from side to side.

---

That night Will could not sleep while his brain pored over the changes that were coming. The moon had risen, creamy light pouring through the window shutters, when he heard unusual sounds – different to the usual hustle of possums on the roof, or tree branches scraping the walls in the breeze.

There was little privacy in that rough bush homestead, for the sleeping areas were separated from each other only by thick burlap screens.

Will sat up, every sense on high alert. He heard gentle footfalls and rustling, along with a quiet thump. By the time he heard the back door creaking open, he was certain that something unusual was happening. He threw on a shirt and followed, just as the back door closed. As he reached the outside, he saw Lainey crossing the yard towards the tack shed, carrying a pillow slip bulging full of her belongings.

She turned and saw her brother coming, but did not try to run.

‘Where are you going?’ he hissed.

‘I’m gonna take the gelding, an’ run off an’ be a bushranger.’

‘You’re only fourteen, an’ girls can’t be bushrangers anyhow.’

‘They can too. What about Harriet Tubman in America?’

Will knew how Lainey loved to read stories about the American Civil War and its aftermath, especially the so-called Wild West, in periodicals subscribed to by the school. ‘She were a Union spy, not a bushranger.’

‘What about Belle Starr?’

‘Well she’s just a robber, aren’t she?’ Will sighed, knowing that he had to stop Lainey somehow. Letting her run away into the bush at night, alone, was ridiculous. Neither would he go with her.

‘Go back to bed,’ he said quietly.

‘Why should I listen to you? You reckon you’re in charge, just ‘cos you’re a fella?’

‘Nope, you should listen to me because I’m talking sense and you ain’t.’

Lainey raised her chin, her eyes glittering in the moonlight. ‘I will, for now, but I’ll find a way. I aren’t goin’ to England with Ma and Pa, not even if Prince bloody Alfred himself wants to marry me.’

Will followed her back inside, stripped off his shirt and crawled into bed. For two or three hours he lay awake, listening for any other attempt by his sister to leave the house. It occurred to him that his family was breaking up, and there wasn’t much he could do to stop it.

NEW CHAPTER SOON

© 2026 Greg Barron Photo courtesy State Library of New South Wales: Splitting fence posts using mallets and wedges – Brogo, NSW. Tom White and workmen

You can read earlier chapters here: https://storiesofoz.com/category/the-adventures-of-will-jones/

The Adventures of Will Jones by Greg Barron

When the Black-hearted Filly stopped trying to buck the saddle off, and slowed to a walk, Will followed patiently with the greenhide halter in his hands, whispering, cooing and even singing gentle songs. His pride was as bruised as his knees and elbows, but there was a glow in his eyes. For all his fourteen years he had dreamed of a horse such as this one.

The filly was listening; he could see her ears prick and move. Now and then she would stop, and look back at him with those big dark eyes before moving off again. Each time she walked more slowly, however, and travelled less far.

At length, after an hour of patient following, she allowed Will to restrain and lead her to the yards. These were solid and imposing, made of greying split posts and rails that had cost so much in splinters and sweat. Rectangular in shape, they were designed for sheep, not horses, but they would have to do. With the gate closed he untacked her, then fetched a pail of oats.

From then until sunset, he did not leave the yard. Yet he did not try to lunge her, or even lead her. Instead, he focussed on gaining her trust. He learned, in those first hours, that the filly did not like to be stroked, or scratched, not even on her withers or alongside her mane. Also, she was obsessively protective of her hindquarters. Approaching her from the rear made her kick or bolt.

The next morning Will continued to take things slowly. He led the filly around the property, taking her to meet the old farm gelding, who, it seemed, had been alone too long to make new friends. He introduced her to the sheds, the fields, then the rams and milk cows. Finally, he took her to the creek for a drink, noting how she started at anything unexpected, even a leaf floating on the current.

When they returned, he tried some of the tricks he had seen used by horse breakers who came and went from neighbouring farms, adapting the techniques to the gear and facilities at hand. Lainey came out and watched, that evening, as he lunged the filly, letting her run at the end of a long rope, in wide circles around his pivoting wrist. Both Will and his sister were in awe at the beauty of her movements, the flowing grace of that animal.

‘She’s a cracker, ain’t she?’ said Lainey.

Will flashed her a smile. He was already in love with that horse, obsessed with her.  When he was not working the filly, he fed her grass from his hands, fetched clean water from the creek, and brushed her as much as she would permit. On warm nights he unrolled a swag beside the yards and slept there, sometimes waking at midnight to feel the falling dew, and see the filly watching him, nickering softly. Even when he slept, he dreamed of her, of galloping across some distant grassland. Waking was no disappointment, because she was there, and the learning, on both sides, continued. All this time the saddle sat in his room; oiled; spotless; waiting.

At school Will had no energy left to play up, for as well as training his new mount, he did a man’s labour around the farm, meaning that he often ate long after dark, his meal kept warm on a tin plate on the cast iron stove. His mother was always there to serve it up, and hug him tight when he seemed dispirited.

His father, never a man to show emotion, merely said encouraging things like, ‘That oss ain’t kilt yew jus’ yet, eh lad?’

She hadn’t of course, because he had not ridden her again, though he had intended to do so several times. Placing a foot in a stirrup was enough to cause her to rear. The slightest hint of his weight had her skittering sideways.

Horse breakers, in those days, did the rounds of districts, travelling from farm to farm, and that weekend, when Will heard there was a breaker in residence at a sheep station called Canyonvale, ten miles away, he saddled the farm gelding and rode him there.

The breaker was a man of about fifty years, with a small clay pipe that never left his mouth, and dark stains on the stumps of his teeth. Will watched him work in the round yard for two eye-opening hours and picked his brains over a quick lunch in the shade of an ironbark, in a paddock that smelled of sheep droppings, and crawled with flies.

‘Sounds like a rare ‘orse,’ said the breaker. ‘I seen plenty of natch’ral outlaws but now an’ then you see one that’s just sensitive, full a’heart and they buck cos they’re so high-strung they can’t help it. Such ‘orses need careful training. I struck one jes like yours once – ‘ated to be touched an’ all, but once she settled to the bit I swear she were the best ‘orse I ever knowed.’

‘Can you come an’ have a look at her for me?’ Will asked.

The breaker sighed, ‘I can’t lad, more’s the pity. I’m contracted for six ‘orses a week for old O’Shanahan an’ I’ve ‘ardly time to scratch meself. But here’s a minute’s worth of advice. I’ll tell you what I did with me ol’ mare Perse, an’ you could try too. I weared her out first. Walked her all hours, then started out with saddle-weights until she were too tired to buck.’

‘Saddle weights?’

‘That’s right, a little more each day until she gets used to it. Then really tire her out before backin’ ‘er for the first time. You see, ‘orses are a bit like boilers on a steam engine. Some are big and powerful an’ slow to steam up. Some get way too much pressure, too quick. You have to let some of that steam off, is all.’

When Will returned, after a thoughtful ride home, the filly seemed to have missed him, watching him incessantly with her huge eyes, even nuzzled under his arms, looking for treats. It didn’t take him long to put into effect the plan suggested by the breaker.

That afternoon, with his mother’s help, he sewed two flour bags together, and filled the space with about three stone worth of sand from the creek. This done, he tied it around the old farm saddle with a leather surcingle. After buckling this contrivance, over a saddle cloth, onto the filly, he walked her around the place for a couple of hours, then lunged her until dark. The next day he added another half-stone of sand, and did it all again. The one big advance, in those days, was that she would now let him stand with his weight on one stirrup, then the other, like he’d seen the breaker do a few days earlier.

The longer this went on, the more reluctant he became to actually mounting her again.

He was tacking the filly up one morning when he noticed his father sitting on the rails, watching him.

‘There lad,’ said Christian Jones. ‘Ah seen Abner Miles up in town afore. He reckons the month is up at the end a’ the week. He wants you to ride o’er there after breakfast on Saturday so ‘e can see youse ride the filly. If you does it alright the saddle is yours.’

‘What if he aren’t happy wif the ride?’ Will asked nervously.

‘If that was to ‘appen yew must give the saddle back.’

When his father strode away Will gave his horse a deep sideways look. The breaker at Canyonvale was pushing through six mounts a week, and he, Will, couldn’t finish one – after three weeks of trying – and she had apparently already been broke.

Will attached the horse’s burden, now seven stone in river sand, and led her off at a brisk walk. Growing impatient after a while, he broke into a jog. He didn’t care that he was darn near worn out himself, he just kept going, until he could see the sheen of sweat on her flanks.

After a good four or five miles of this, he lunged her for another hour, let her drink, then untied the sandbags and dropped them to the ground. When this was done, he fetched the new saddle from his room, along with a clean saddle cloth, bridle and bit. When she was tacked and ready he looked into her huge left eye.

‘Right,’ said Will. ‘You an’ me have learned to get along pretty well, but now yer goin’ to have to let me back yer. It aren’t so bad really, just about every other horse in the world has learned to let someone ride them. Why can’t you?’

The filly lifted her head a little, like a nod. That was enough encouragement for Will. He slipped his left boot into the stirrup, and swung his leg over. Then, without any pressure on the reins, he told her to walk, like he had a hundred times before, from the safety of the ground.

 The filly took a few steps, stopped, then made a low groan that might have been resignation. Then, she settled into a crisp walk, around the perimeter of the yards, responding to Will’s gentle signals.

Feeling confident, Will took her out through the gate, heading down towards the corn fields. She was obviously nervous, but kept her composure, even when a wallaby started from the grass beside the track.

For almost an hour he rode her, and when he passed the house, he called out to the family, and they came out to clap and congratulate him. When he finally dismounted, Will was filled with elation, though he knew that this was only a start. It was one thing to sit on a horse and walk her around. Abner Miles would want to see a little more than that. He was still a long way from success.

All week he wore the filly out with the weight of river sand, then mounted up, still using the new saddle, so she could get used to it. Out in the paddocks and farm tracks he practiced bringing her up into a trot, turning and wheeling. She was learning to respond to even the subtlest signals.

It was a punishing schedule for Will as much as the horse, and on the one day he tried to mount her without working her hard first, she sucked back at first, and when he finally got her moving she bucked him off cold, leaving him picking up his hat and staring after her, shaking his head.

When Saturday morning came, Will rose before dawn and snuck out of the house. He caught the filly in the darkness, saddled her and added the weighted sack.

Then he led her out the drive, and onto the road. He led her into Grubben Creek, then back again twice, jogging all the way. He went inside for breakfast while she rested, and with the best wishes of his family ringing in his ears, he rode the filly to Abner Miles’s place.

 Will had been there before, and knew the place well enough. He spotted Abner Miles and his farm hands, near the house yards, sitting on makeshift seats around a smoky fire. A freshly-shoed horse was standing nearby, while others waited for the same treatment in a small yard. Also present was a lad of about six years, dressed up as a miniature horseman, running wild around the camp.

‘By Jove! If it ain’t young Jones,’ Abner cried, standing up so abruptly he almost spilled his mug of tea. ‘‘An’ he’s riding the Black-hearted Filly. Well done lad, yer’ve tamed her.’

Will rode in close to the group, and dismounted with relief. He had got here on horseback, and had not been bucked off in front of these men. That was a good start, he reckoned.

‘She looks darned exhausted,’ said one of the men.

‘Well, she felt like a gallop,’ lied Will, ‘so that’s what we done.’ He paused and looked at Abner. ‘Well, Da reckoned that all I had to do was ride over here, to show you that I’ve finished breakin’ her, and I guess I’ve done just that.’

‘Well, you have done what I asked, a’course,’ said Abner. ‘But before the bet’s won, and the saddle’s yours, I’d like to see you ride a little more.’ He pointed to the flat stretch of paddock beside the yards. ‘How about a canter? Show us a few turns at speed. Maybe left and right, a fast stop. Then back her up.’

Will knew that all the blood left his face, because he could feel it go. He’d only had a few days to train her and was not confident of performing in front of these seasoned riders. He looked down into the eyes of the six-year-old boy, who was picking his nose and staring back. Moving his gaze to the ground, Will shuffled his feet a few times, then looked back at the owner. ‘Whatever you say, Mr Miles.’

Acting with a confidence he did not feel, Will mounted up and urged the filly out onto the stubbled ground of the paddock. Nudging her into a trot he did a wide loop that felt almost perfect. Everything was in rhythm, his backside rising and falling in accord with the gait.

Next, he edged his weight forward and felt her power as she accelerated, changing into the three-beat canter while he held the reins with soft hands. So far so good; the filly was behaving impeccably. She cantered, responded to heel and rein, turning left and right. After a few minutes of this he felt confident enough to try a trick he had only just started teaching her the previous day – leaning back and applying light pressure with the reins. In response she backed up so neatly he swelled with pride at how far she had come.

When he and the filly had done all that was asked, and more, Will rode back to the group of men, staying on the horse and looking down from the saddle. He felt on top of the world. He had, himself, tamed this amazing creature, and earned the beautiful saddle all on his own.

Abner Miles had just opened his mouth, no doubt to compliment Will on his effort, when the six-year-old lad decided that it might be interesting to approach the filly from the rear and pull like a bell-ringer on her admittedly beautiful tail. 

The reaction was startling. Terrified by the sudden movement she could not see, and the pain of her pulled tail, the filly kicked backwards, then started forward, bucked once and tried to gallop away. By some miracle the lad who had caused this reaction, avoided having his skull split and scrambled to safety, bawling in fear.

After covering fifty yards the filly left the ground in a wild four-legged leap, and Will, who had been clinging on with some success, fell down her near side, in complete disbelief at this change in circumstance.

All might have been well, if his foot had not tangled in the stirrup, and his dragging body had not spooked the filly again. She ran, confused and terrified, like wind through a gully, the weight on one side causing her to run in a circle, dragging him back, almost adjacent to Abner Miles and his men.

As Will finally managed to pull his foot from the stirrup, the spectators were laughing fit to bust.

He came to his feet at last, near tears, skin off his elbows and the arse torn from his pants, shuffling, embarrassed while the filly stopped nearby, looking hurtfully back at the group.

‘I s’spose I ‘ave to give that saddle back now,’ Will said.

Abner Miles came to clap him on the shoulder. ‘No lad, you gave us the best laugh I’ve had a bloody donkey’s years. It’s yours. Our saddler’s only just starting up makin’ what he reckons are special Australian stock saddles – it’s what ‘e calls a practice go.’

‘Thank you, sir, you’re very kind.’

With his pride at stake, Will had no intention of leaving that place on foot. He caught the filly, straightened the saddle, climbed aboard and rode off at a walk, still sore, but aware that he was now the owner of a horse and saddle that could take him anywhere he wanted to go.

© 2026 Greg Barron

Photo courtesy State Library of South Australia

New Chapter soon …

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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The Adventures of Will Jones by Greg Barron

One morning, after cramming another lump of damper, spread with butter and treacle into his mouth, and chasing it down with his final swallow of tea, Will hoisted his school satchel onto his back and called for Lainey.

‘Out here,’ she called, and Will padded out the kitchen door, following her voice. She was kneeling beside their mother’s herb garden, poking at something with a twig.

‘You comin’ to school or not?’ Will asked.

Lainey ignored him. ‘It’s a funnel web spider hole,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna get the blighter out.’

Interested now, Will squatted beside her, watching as Lainey teased the spider out of its webbed hole. It was glossy black, with hairy limbs, a huge, rounded abdomen, and two talon-like fangs held high, ready to strike.

‘I reckon it’s a male,’ Will said.

‘How can you tell?’

‘I just can.’

‘Go get a jar,’ she told him.

‘Why?’

‘I’ve an idea. That’s why.’

Will hurried back into the kitchen, returning with a jar. It was light green in colour, one of many used to store tomato pickles after the last autumn pickings. The lid was made of tin, and fitted loosely, wax being needed to fix it in place. He’d caught plenty of spiders before, so he knew the technique. He placed the mouth of the jar on the ground while Lainey encouraged the deadly creature to enter with her twig.

‘Watch out,’ said Will. ‘The barsteds can jump.’ After saying this he had a quick look around to make sure his mother was not nearby and had not heard him say that banned word. He was not fond of the taste of soap.

Finally, with the spider crouching defensively inside the jar, Will held it close to his right eye to study it. ‘Well, we’ve got him. What’s the plan?’

Lainey grinned impishly. ‘How about we interduce him to ol’ Humpty Dumpty?’

Will took a few moments for this to sink in. That was their nickname for Mr Humber, the teacher. He was horrified and excited by the idea. ‘Cripes, we might kill the poor cow.’

‘So what?’ Lainey grinned widely. ‘He deserves it.’

‘Maybe,’ muttered Will, ‘anyhow, we’ll be late if all we do all day is sit around here natterin’ about it.’

Still keeping hold of the jar, and with their satchels on, they set off walking, down the rutted track that led to the Jones family’s front gate. Sheep bleated as they passed – the flock was small but valued and Will kept an eye on them. He knew the rams and breeding ewes by name, and noted when old Sal was limping a little, or Blacky was laying down in the shade, off his tucker again.

As they walked, Will holding the jar carefully so that the lid was secure, Lainey seemed to be wrestling with her conscience. ‘We could pull the barsted’s fangs off,’ she said.

Will skipped ahead sideways. ‘You can’t, it kills ’em. Eddie Wright tried it one time, and he nearly got bit while he was doin’ it. Then the blarsted thing croaked anyhow.’ He paused to put down his satchel, pick up a stone and peg it at a raven on a branch, missing by only a few inches.

The walk to school was about a mile but it passed quickly. When other kids joined them Will hid the jar in his satchel, and joined in the banter about the weather, the upcoming rodeo on Johnny Lyttle’s place, and news of Ben Hall’s gang holding up another coach near Eugowra.

The schoolhouse, when they reached it, sat back from the rest of the village, surrounded by a white picket fence. Various schoolmasters had planted trees, but they were still saplings. The only real shade was provided by two big old gums and some wattles.

As they walked through the gate, Will slunk off and hid the jar behind the privies, with a small twig keeping the lid open a crack so the creature could breathe, and a heavy rock on top so it could not escape.

On that half-acre yard of scythed grass and bare dirt, Lainey and Will played outside with the others. More kids arrived, some on horseback – sometimes two on the same mount – but mostly on foot. They chucked footballs, skipped ropes and chanted ‘oranges and lemons,’ in small groups and gangs.

 The bell tolled and they lined up in two rows. Mr Humber, dressed in dark grey trousers, breast coat and formal jacket, as was the case no matter what the weather, played God Save the Queen on a mouth organ, while the Union Jack fluttered upwards on the pole.

The teacher, who had a strong sense of theatre, kept time with harsh yells of ‘left, right, left right left,’ while the children marched around the flag, saluting when he ordered them to do so.

Once inside the schoolhouse, Mr Humber removed his jacket and draped it on his chair, then rolled up his sleeves as if he were about to chop firewood. He made a show out of selecting a stick of chalk from a box and started writing activities for each grade on the board. The children set about their tasks in order: a set of arithmetic, spelling words to be copied, and sentences to compose. After an hour of this brutally silent labour, they were asked to read from their copies of that thick and very uninteresting volume: the Fourth Reading Book for Use in Schools.

While he waited for his turn, Will felt a familiar sense of dread. He sweated and looked around. When his name was called, he stuck one dirty forefinger under the first word and tried to stammer it out. He could read, a little, if he were left alone, but right then he felt like he was standing on a podium with all the people and animals of God’s creation surrounding him, watching and laughing.  

‘Well, come on now Jones,’ cried Mr Humber. ‘We don’t have all day.’ He left his desk, marched down the row and stood over Will. At this point he removed his handkerchief and pretended to pat the sweat from his brow, rolling his eyes all the while, the picture of mock despair.

After he’d extracted a laugh from the other students Mr Humber quit the act. ‘Are you lazy, boy? Or just stupid?’ He jabbed his finger at the book. ‘The word is “avenue” boy.’

‘Avenue,’ Will repeated, but the ordeal was only just beginning. He stumbled from word to word, red-faced and voice cracking, while Humber haunted the desk, belittling and haranguing him, at intervals pretending to pass out from the pain of listening to Will read.

Somehow Will stumbled to the end of the passage, his ears burning like they were on fire. At that point Humber looked almost disappointed as the next student in line looked up, ready to start reading.

‘My thanks, Will Jones,’ said the teacher, ‘for attempting to demonstrate to the class the difference between the words imbecilic, and moronic. Not an easy task, since you display the qualities of both.’

When the recess bell tolled, the siblings met outside. Will was red-faced and trembling from the ordeal.

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m gettin’ the spider. I don’t care if the barsted does get bit.’

‘He deserves it, the bugger,’ agreed Lainey.

They waited until Mr Humber had walked, as was his habit at recess, to the outside privy that was reserved for his personal use in the rear of the school grounds. Will fetched the spider in its jar, and with Lainey as assistant, snuck into the school room. With great care, they emptied the creature into Mr Humber’s jacket pocket.

They had barely removed themselves from the room again, before the long thin figure of their teacher appeared, and the bell ringer tolled the end of recess. ‘Come along children,’ Humber called, singling out a few by name when they tarried.  

 Back at their desks, both Will and Lainey were nervous, and this made them unusually diligent. Lainey did not poke Toby Moran in the back with her pencil, or giggle with her best friend Janie. Even Mr Humber seemed to notice the change, for every now and then, at the end of a sentence, he would pause with a stick of chalk in his hand and glance at her, as a bullfighter might glance at a bull that had not yet charged.

Over the next thirty minutes, Will’s eyes were torn between his geography workbook and his teacher, who was sitting at his desk, grading papers and drinking tea from a flask.

Finally, he saw the spider. It had left Humber’s pocket, climbed over the back of his jacket and reached his shoulder. Will hissed Lainey’s name and pointed.

The spider crawled down Humber’s upper left arm. Lainey couldn’t help herself. She let out a giggle, then a loud guffaw. At that moment, Humber looked down and saw the spider, now resting on the folds of his shirt sleeves. His eyes turned white, growing bigger than soup plates. 

The children roared with laughter as the schoolteacher came to his feet, and began to hop, brushing desperately at himself all the while. Humber gripped his own forearm and let out a squeal that might have been heard ten miles away. He keeled over, in front of them all, hitting the floorboards with a thump that Will felt in his gut.

‘Jesus, the poor barsted’s dead,’ he blurted out. ‘We’ve kilt him.’

By then the children were no longer laughing. They left their seats and crept forward, until they formed a ring around the hapless schoolmaster. The funnel web was on the ground beside its apparent victim, fangs raised, threatening and dangerous.

‘We shouldn’t’ve done it,’ said Will. ‘It were bloody murder.’

Lainey, uncharacteristically, burst into tears. To Will’s ears it was the most terrifying thing he had ever heard. She had never been sorry for anything before.

Then, in a sudden movement, the school master sat bolt upright, and with an exaggerated leap, came to his feet. The ring of students cowered back a pace or two, and there was a long, stunned silence. It went on for an age. To Will it was a silence deeper than might be found in a cave, or at the foot of some Siberian iceberg. In that time no bird sang, no child talked, indeed none dared breathe.

Mr Humber uncoiled one long arm and pointed at Will. ‘Aha,’ he cried, ‘so it was you. With my little dramatic turn I have made you confess. Do you think I’m stupid? You think I’d let a spider bite my arm? I did not come down in the last shower of rain.’ He looked at Lainey too. ‘I’d bet a month’s wages that you were in this up to your filthy neck. Villains, both of you.’

The teacher strode to his desk, collected his own copy of the Fourth Reading Book for Use in Schools from his desk and used it to comprehensively splat the funnel web spider. Then he fired out a glare that could have broken glass. His voice however was now soft and controlled. ‘Go back to your seats, every one of you. Will and Elaine Jones, I will speak to you at lunch time.’

Will’s eyes roved to the cane that leaned up against the corner of the room, behind the teacher’s desk. He knew what happened when Mr Humber wanted to ‘speak’ to him.

When Will and his sister walked home at the end of the day, Lainey was uncharacteristically quiet. It was not the first time the siblings had felt the sting of Humber’s cane, but this time the schoolmaster had really put his back into it.

‘I s’pose it all turned out alright in a way,’ said Lainey. ‘It wouldn’t be too good if we had atcherly kilt him.’

Will, who had copped four more strokes on each hand than Lainey, said nothing. He was busy wondering how soon he could convince his parents, without admitting to wrong-doing, that his schooling days were done.

© 2026 Greg Barron
New chapter soon

The Adventures of Will Jones by Greg Barron

Will Jones was born in a hut hewn of grey gum poles and clad with bark, surrounded by the hills and scrub of the western side of the Great Dividing Range – a sixty-acre selection of sandy flats and rocky gullies, where dingoes wailed their ghostly calls, platypus swam the creeks and crows cawed from the branches of dead trees. The ground here, Will’s father used to say, was three parts stone and one part the bones of humans, black and white, who had broken their hearts on the place previously.  

The nearest town was a settlement called Grubben Creek, which boasted a Wesleyan church, a hall, a school and a few houses. There was also a store, the proprietor of which was often at odds with local puritans, for allowing thirsty travellers and working men to drink rum or whisky discreetly in the bough shed out the back.

Will’s birth took place at home, with an inexperienced but enthusiastic neighbour called Hattie Creagh in attendance. She assisted Amelia by reading passages from the birthing chapter of a leather bound copy of The Home Doctor and holding her hand when the contractions came. Luckily, Will arrived without much fuss. At just seven pounds, he was on the scrawny side, but he took to the breast straight off and soon gained weight. He proved to be an affable little chap, who slept all night within a matter of weeks, and smiled and made pleased noises when left alone to play.

The 1860s were boom years for some, and a succession of gold finds were announced like a trail of dominos. Yet, with a civil war raging in America, many goods were unobtainable. Poor selectors struggled with the meanness of the land grant system and the general unproductiveness of their acreage.

Breakfast was regularly interrupted by Will’s father, Christian Jones, whiskered and formidable, slamming the newspaper down on the table. ‘Be hung if there’s a boom. I can’t see no boom ‘round ‘ere.’ He’d been born and bred in the Black Country around Birmingham, England and his accent had not faded one bit.

‘Well there might be,’ said his wife, the much more patient Amelia. ‘If the roos didn’t eat the corn, and the creek didn’t stop running.’

‘You may well say so,’ thundered Christian. ‘But the roos do eat the damned corn, and the creek does stop running. Where’s your damned boom now?’

‘Please don’t swear, dear Christian,’ she would say, then lift young Will to her chest as if to protect the little mite from his father’s language. ‘And would you go into town to see if Mr Strong will allow us another bag of flour until the corn cheque comes?’

The selection provided much of what the family needed, but only through hard work and care. Christian had a repressed urge to join the prospectors who passed by on their way to the latest rush on the Lachlan River near Forbes – colonial lads with elbows and arses worn out of their trousers, the British with their carts bristling with shovel handles and pickaxes, and the Chinese with their pigtails, loads balanced on long poles. Christian would lean on a gate post, smoking his pipe and watching.

‘Yampy fools!’ he would growl. ‘Be lucky to find ‘noof gold to fill a tooth, most of them.’

This cynicism did not stop Christian from taking a rusty gold pan down to the creek, every time he had a spare hour, panning gravel at likely bends in the stream. Over the years he found enough gold dust to look pretty in a jar, two sapphires and some agates. Still, he held that to be an encouraging start, and never let go of the idea.

As an infant, Will was part of farm life, strapped to his mother’s upper body as she picked or husked corn, drove the cart to fetch water, chopped kindling or turned the spinning wheel, making yarn to knit warm clothes for winter. He grew up bow-legged and enchanting, with a larrikin grin that would light up a room. Even strangers in the street paused to share in his good nature.

When Will was two, his sister Elaine came along, and the pair were soon partners in mischief. Usually called Lainey, Will’s sister had long, fair hair that started the day neatly brushed, but ended it hanging in dank, sweaty hanks. Her knees were, like Will’s, permanently stained with dirt. By the time she was ten she could whittle a slingshot, skip a stone or ride a farm pony bareback just as well as he could.

At school, trouble was never far away. Their teacher was an elderly Methodist called Mr Humber, who had long ago lost passion for his vocation, and entertained himself with the singling out and humiliation of various members of the class.

Will didn’t mind arithmetic, geometry, or even geography, but English was not his strong point. Most of all he hated to read aloud, a skill that Mr Humber believed should be practiced each day.

When he first took up his position at the school, the teacher would start the reading off with the pupil directly in front of his desk, then work his way across, and down to the next row. Will responded by sitting at the back. When the teacher reversed this choice, Will moved to the front. After a while, the system became random, so Will sat somewhere in the middle and hoped that the morning recess would arrive before it was his turn.

Back on the farm Will Jones was afraid of nothing. He could stare down the old jersey bull, and grab a tiger snake by the tail, but one look at the thick spine of the Fourth Reading Book for Use in Schools made him break out in a cold sweat, and sent a tremor up his spine.

Sometimes he was lucky – a couple of big grey kangaroos might wander into the school yard and need to be hunted out. Now and then the teacher became so immersed in leading the class in reciting their times tables, over and over again, waving his hand like a conductor’s baton, that he quite forgot about reading at all.

At least once a week or so, Will’s turn came, and his guts turned to water.

© 2026 Greg Barron – Photo Courtesy of National Library – New chapter soon!