Doomed Dynasty Pt. 01

The journalist offered to later interview Reece alone about memories of his father "to ensure we get an accurate picture." This pressure to participate forced Reece to think clearly about his father in a way he had not done so previously, even when pressed by Chase "to let it all flow out." He thought perhaps now was the time to do that.

The feature writer had been warned by his news editor not to expect any cooperation from Matt's son... "Like his dad, Reece Curtis really is a hard bastard."

The warning appeared to be misplaced, however. Reece showed himself to be a thoughtful and clear-thinking individual, who expressed himself well and, in this instance, was particularly cooperative.

* * *

The article, rather than a simple obituary, in The Sunday Tribune was headed 'Death of a Multiple Hero and Hard B----d'.

None of the family was upset at that heading, least of all Patricia, Matt's mother. It was only stating the truth.

The article outlined the Curtis dynasty.

'In 1867 William Curtis, a Scot born just outside Aberdeen and later farmed stud cattle at Tillyfour, sailed for New Zealand with his wife Amelia and two small children, Charles and Alice, to buy land to develop a cattle and sheep station far larger than that William could have afforded to do in his native Scotland.'

'Eventually suitable land was found alongside the Miranda River, some of it old riverbed terraces. Ever mindful of the homeland on the other side of the world, he named his station Faraway Farm.'

'His son Charles inherited Faraway Farm in 1891, he married a Christchurch lawyer's daughter, Sarah Scott, and it then passed on to his only son, Collier Curtis, in 1924 who had married the daughter of a local pastoralist, Patricia Sutherland. It passed to son Matt in 1957 who the following year married Courtney Sterling of Wellington. Matt had been christened Matthew but soon after he started talking he persistently called himself Matt and the shorter version of his name stuck. Collier 'Fearless' Curtis, a local legend because of his fearless horsemanship, wild behaviour and then in his latter years his aggressiveness as mayor to modernise the town centre and persuade the Government to build a bridge over the river to replace the out-dated but nevertheless iconic ferry.'

'Collier worked on toughening up his son from an early age. He proudly claimed that he wanted Matt to fight above his weight and ride horses furiously, boasting that he looked forward to the day when Matt could knock him senseless, race him to the back boundary of their farm and drink him under the table.'

'Matt achieved his father's first two targets by the time he turned seventeen but never achieved the third, much to his father's disappointment. His father's capacity for liquor would invariably left him 'last man standing' at parties with shearers, shepherds and neighbours.'

The article stated that in his last year at high school Matt was expelled for assaulting a fellow pupil, Victoria (Vikki) Armstrong, who eventually became a very close friend of her former assailant.

The writer reported that people were shocked to learn of the assault on the Rev. Clyde Armstrong's daughter. As the deeply aggrieved widower gathered sufficient support to get Matt expelled from the school, Rev. Armstrong decided against referring the incident to the police after gaining the agreement of Matt's father, the Mayor, to arrange for his disgraced son to 'disappear' for a while. Victoria was sent south to a relative as soon as the stitches to her mouth had been removed. The scandal over Matt's expulsion faded when it became known that he had been sent to live with his father's young sister in Wyoming.

CHAPTER 2

In mid-August 1956 Matt Curtis arrived in the United States to begin a great adventure. He left Los Angeles by bus, arriving in Cheyenne more than twenty hours later.

Matt enjoyed passing through the famous Rocky Mountains to enter a historic part of the west. He'd read many yarns about people and places of the Wild West and many times he'd come across the name Cheyenne. Now he was walking its streets imagining that perhaps real gunfighters once walked where he was walking.

Matt stayed the night at a cheap hotel, and next morning went out to try some real western food.

"Say, you're not from around these parts," drawled the waitress.

"New Zealand?" she said, surprised, when told by Matt where he hailed from. "I'm not quite sure where that is, but I've never met anyone from those parts before."

Matt had never met anyone quite like her, a big-breasted good-looking woman with a very wide mouth encircled with bright red lipstick. She conversed with him, a total stranger, without any shyness and wanted to know all about him.

"I've got a boy of sixteen, and as sure of hell I wouldn't let him go halfway around the world by himself like you are doing."

Matt was surprised that she didn't know the town where he would be heading for by bus around midday.

"Nope, never head of Arrowhead. Are you sure it is in Wyoming?"

Matt arrived there late that afternoon, travelling via Laramie, another name he was very familiar with from reading cowboy stories. He was the only passenger to alight at Arrowhead and was disappointed Aunt Milly was not waiting to greet him. The only other person he could see was a dark featured man, leaning against a street pole.

Matt was now becoming nervous that he might be marooned. There was still no sign of Aunt Milly. Lifting his duffle bag on to his shoulder he thought he should ask someone where the Bar 2X ranch was, so walked over to the wiry middle-aged man with an unlit cigarette drooping from his mouth.

Before he could speak, the old man asked: "Are you Fearless Curtis' kid? You sure look like him."

So, thought Matt. This must be Ponto Rivers.

"Yep, and are you Mr Rivers?"

The man looked at Matt as if he'd insulted him.

"I'm Ponto to you and to everyone else. Out here we only call gentlemen Mister and I can't rightly says when I last met one of those. The pick-up is round the corner. Come."

The only vehicle there was a dusty and rather battered 1936 Ford. Ponto grinned at the enthusiasm of the boy and opened the hood to show him the flat-head V8 motor.

"You like cars boy?"

"I do, especially American ones. We don't have many at home because imports were stopped by the war and our involvement in the war was costly and the county has just got going again. But dad drives am ex-Army Jeep. I also like horses. Dad says Aunt Milly runs some of the best."

"Your dad!" said Ponto, and then fell silent, leaving that comment unfinished.

During the ride in the Ford, Matt had to lead the conversation.

"Gosh, I thought the Rockies looked magnificent. Reminds me of our Southern Alps back home."

"You've got mountains that big back home? Can't remember Fearless ever telling us that. He gave us the impression that New Zealand was made up of green paddocks, thermal areas twice as good as Yellowstone and lakes and rivers where they throw back trout if they're not twice the size of our ones in Lake Soda."

"Yeah, we've got lots of mountain ranges and a few very high mountains. Does it ever snow on the ranch?"

Ponto took his eyes off the road momentarily to see if the teenager was pulling his leg.

Apparently satisfied the kid was serious he said, "Yep, it does snow a bit, quite a bit actually. By mid-December you will be up to your ass in it."

At that Ponto laughed, enjoying his wit. Matt thought it best to join in.

Looking at the laughing teenager again, Ponto swung his left-hand across his chest and playfully punched Matt on the upper arm. The wallop caught Matt by surprise, moving him a couple of inches across the bench seat.

Ponto caught the involuntary clenching of Matt's left fist, and smiled approvingly. "You'll do, boy. Didn't think that Fearless would raise a softie."

They were passing small farm lots and when they slowed, turned and drove under the Bar 2X sign suspended on two vertical poles, Matt was disappointed. He remembered in his boyhood his father relating his times he'd spent on this ranch. As Matt recalled, his father had galloped his horse over mainly unfenced grassland that disappeared into the distance. Thus he had been expecting to be arriving at a ranch of several thousand acres.

"How many acres do you have here Ponto?"

"Me? None. I'm only the hired help. Milly has 350 acres. We used to be very much bigger but you know, bad prices in some years, taxes and pressure to size down land those days means really big ranches are gone forever for all but a very few people. One day I'll take you to my brother Quincy's spread further up country. He's on a few thousand acres and each year joins the Upper Green River cattle trek to the summer pastures in the national forest."

"A cattle trek, you mean just like the old days on the Oregon trail?"

"Yes, but you already have been on part of that trail."

"Really! When?"

"When you reached Cheyenne and then went through Fort Laramie you were more or less following the old Oregon Trail. It then went through South Pass, which is close to here. You are, my young friend, in really historic cattleman's country."

Matt's aunt came running out of what looked more like a barn than a house to greet them, waving excitedly. The solid blonde in a checked shirt, blue dungarees and brown leather boots hugged Matt and said she was sorry about the trouble he had landed himself in.

"What really happened?" she asked, insisting that he call her Milly because she was young enough to be his much older sister.

They laughed unaware that moment established a wonderful relationship.

Matt said, "Well, the girl is one of those really pushy types and when I said no, I didn't want to go to the ball with a dame who comes on too strongly, she slapped me. I sort of hit her back... didn't really mean to, it just happened. I truly didn't clip her hard but caught the corner of her mouth and it split open. There was blood everywhere. One of her girl friends saw what happened and started screaming I just took off."

"Was that the reason why you didn't want to go to the ball, because she was pushy?"

"W-e-l-l no. It's rather embarrassing really." Matt stared up to the sky and confessed, "I can't dance."

"What?" laughed Milly. "My brother is one of the most graceful dancers I have ever danced with."

"Not any more, not since he shattered his leg when falling off his horse some years back. He limps badly now."

"Good gracious, I am so sad about that. Patricia wrote that he'd taken a hard fall, but it didn't realise it was a bad as that. Well, young Matt, we've got three things to do for you, and I want you to listen. One, teach you to respect women; two, teach you to ride a horse; three, teach you to dance."

"But I can already ride a horse, and ride well," Matt protested.

He saw Milly and Ponto look at each other and grin. Matt was puzzled about that exchange. "Oh, I really would like to learn to dance; it's just that I never got round to it."

"We have got some very pretty, lively fillies around here, and I don't mean horses. It will be worth your while to become known as a good dancer."

At 6:00 the next morning Matt leapt out of bed and peered through the window. He saw Ponto standing outside with a tired old horse. Despite being saddled, the sink in its back was very noticeable.

Matt thought one for the knacker's yard.

He then saw Milly at the back door putting down a hammer on to the tank stand. It was she who had clanged the hanging piece of steel. It was a wake-up noise that he'd hear every morning except Sundays.

"Meet Flying Victor," Milly said to Matt, as he emerged through the doorway. "Take him for a ride and see if you can jump that feed trough," she said, pointing to the low container half-full of a chaff and grain mixture.

Matt swung up lightly into the saddle, found the other stirrup instinctively through long practice and caught the reins as Ponto threw them up on either side of Flying Victor's head.

Digging his heels in, sitting on a huge and unfamiliar saddle, Matt almost unseated himself as, instead of leaping ahead, the horse simply plodded forward slowly.

Looking back he could see Milly and Ponto in near hysterics.

He dug in his heels deeply, and lashed the horse's neck a couple of times with the ends of the reins. But Flying Victor was steadfast, moving along at precisely the same measured gait of a snail.

Matt gave up, and pulled to turn the horse. But the horse turned resited, snorting, and continued its forward motion, then stopped at the trough and began eating. Its rider dismounted and slunk back to the two people who were wiping away tears.

"Have you got something with a little less passion?" Matt asked, through gritted teeth. That sent the other two off into another spasm.

"Oh, we're sorry, Matt but out here one doesn't get much real entertainment," said Milly, now with a very red face. "I must say, you took it very well."

They had breakfast, a real cowboy's breakfast, according to Ponto. Matt, used to perfectly shaped beans floating in tomato sauce, took a mouthful of the refried seasoned beans and hastily washed them down with water.

"You'll get use to the fiery taste and will never eat that tinned crap again," Milly predicted. Three mouthfuls later Matt was thinking that perhaps she was right.

After breakfast the three of them rode out to show Matt the spread. There was a small herd of purebred Herefords and the remainder of the stock were horses.

"Milly buys the horses in as yearlings and we finish them off to the stage of being led by halter. Some go to local cattlemen and others are driven to Landers where they are broken in for us and then shipped out to buyers, some going to neighbouring states," Ponto explained.

Up to this stage they had been walking the horses quietly along.

"Race you all to the windmill," shouted Milly and they were off. She had a two-length start on the men but in less than 100 yards they passed her. Within another 100 yards Matt headed Ponto by five lengths.

Although unfamiliar with the heavy western saddle, Matt decided to put on a bit of a show. As he neared the windmill he threw his body clear of the saddle, holding on to the horn. His feet hit the ground and he leaped back into the air and went clean over the saddle to bounce on to the ground on the other side of his mount and to thump back into the saddle again.

He turned his horse at speed and stopped; both horse and rider were breathing heavily.

"My word, aren't we a big show off," Milly said rather proudly.

Matt scratched behind his right ear and said, "What a neat little horse. What's it called?"

Ponto looked at Milly, and she nodded to him.

"The horse is yours, Matt, totally yours," he said. "We've named it Nevada, but don't think that name is right for it. You name it."

Matt flushed with pleasure. "Oh, thanks Milly."

"Thank Ponto," she replied. "He does routine chores for me for his keep and takes what else he is owed in extra work in horse flesh. This sorrel is one of his. It's his way of saying thank you to your father, who bought him to me. They'd worked together all through the summer of 1947 and when the season ended and Ponto had not found work my brother bought Ponto back with him. It was only meant to be for over the winter, but Ponto became so useful about the place I just couldn't let him go."

"Thank you, thank you very much, Ponto," said Matt.

Ponto lifted a hand in acknowledgement, but looked embarrassed. He covered this by saying, "What are you going to call her?"

"Chinook because she goes like the wind."

Surprised, Ponto asked, "How do you know about that name?"

"We're educated in New Zealand Ponto. Did you think we were dumbclucks?"

"It means very unintelligent persons," Milly said, cutting in when noting Ponto's confusion. "He's using it in a joking sense."

"Dumbcluck, that's a word I'll find a use for," said Ponto. "Dumbcluck."

The weather got colder and before Christmas after one big dump the snow was really up to Matt's ass. In January he struggled to keep warm but gradually the weeks passed and life started getting back to normal.

It even snowed in the town, and Matt was surprised to learn that the settlement got around 60 inches during winter. He wrote home about this, and the tough life farm and ranch folk had.

"We view the Wind River Mountains from here, as you well know dad," he wrote. "Ponto says that there are drifts up to 12ft deep in those mountains. Mountains are everywhere around here, and Ponto says wolves, black bears and even grizzlies are on often come down looking for food and will sometimes kill cattle."

Milly invited some neighbours over to meet the visitor from New Zealand.

One couple, a mother and her daughter, were both very pale blondes. Martha Bridger looked on approvingly as her daughter Caitlin and Matt fell into easy conversation.

Later in the evening Martha pulled Matt to his feet to join the other dancers. Matt's feet often were not in the right place but being light on his toes he managed to do quite well. He had good rhythm and Martha, taking him into a strong grip was doing the leading.

"I see you have been talking to my daughter," she said.

"She's a lovely girl, a very lovely girl," he replied, uncomfortably, wondering if Milly had told her the reason why he had been more of less chucked out of New Zealand.

"Just be gentle with her Matt," said Martha. "You probably don't know this but the three times you father visited here I was his girl, even though on the last occasion I was married."

Matt was flabbergasted. He had never heard a woman talking like this. Not only that, it seemed that he was being given some sort of licence to partner her daughter. She must be drunk. But then he reasoned that everything she was saying and the graceful way in which she was twirling him around the floor were not the words or actions of a drunk person.

"Where's your husband this evening?" he asked, not knowing anything else to say.

Martha looked straight at him and cocked an eyebrow. "Why young man, do you have something in mind?"

Horrified, Matt was about to blurt a denial and then saw the mischievous look on her face. She was just teasing him.

"I just thought it was funny that your husband would let you two girls go out alone."

"Thank you for your concern, Matt, but I can assure you that we rancher girls of Wyoming who know how to rope bulls and ride wild horses are quite capable of looking after ourselves. Lukas has gone up to the summer pasturelands to check on the windmills. It's risky but the thaw appears to be underway."

She then twirled him around twice very rapidly, stopped, and said smilingly, "Thank you, Matt. Here's your new partner."

Matt found himself looking into the green-yellow eyes of the much younger blonde, Martha's daughter called Caitlin, a name he'd never come across until now.

"You seemed to be enjoying dancing with my mother?"

"Well, yes Caitlin. I may call you Caitlin?"

"Of course, please do. I've been longing to meet you. All of my girlfriends have been talking about the handsome New Zealander who has arrived in our midst, but none of them has actually had the opportunity of talking to you. We know that Milly has been purposely keeping you from us. She's so mean."

"Well, you and your girlfriends ought to know that I'm here because I got into some trouble back home..."

"Oh, that." responded Caitlin, cutting in. "We all know about that. We in Sublette County run the best grapevine in the State. We all think you must have had a good reason for doing what you did. You know, your father was a wonderful ambassador for your country."

Matt coloured, wondering what she was getting at. Did you know about his father and her mother?