He walked from the feed shed and waved us into an area surrounded by corrals and barns. It became obvious we were entering a different century. Nothing resembled today. Everywhere you looked there were articles of days gone by. Stage coaches, wagons, lanterns, hitches, and saddles lined the open sheds. Everything was placed as if art directed by a curator of western antiquities. Not junky, not neat, but just the way it was in any one of hundreds of cowboy movies.
I introduced Fargo to Becky and it was evident his first impression of her was far different than the ones he had of me back at the bar, (the goddammed long hair hippy with short pants.)
We accompanied him to a goat pen where he fed two prized goats with large brass bells around their necks. When Becky asked, he explained the bells were to frighten the wolves and coyotes.
He finished a few chores feeding goats, opening and closing doors in his pigeon roosts, and then offered us coffee. We followed Fargo through the courtyard along with a half dozen or so chickens and guinea hens pecking at the ground and strutting along with us. Fargo made his way past covered wagons and ox carts to a sitting porch tucked in under a three sided structure. Everywhere we looked were artifacts, mementoes and pictures of seemingly every movie star who ever graced the silver screen either standing with Fargo or seated on one of his horses, mules, or carriages. There were hundreds of pictures and hand written notes from movie stars, directors and producers. Even the ceilings were covered with them. The Perc-o-lator pot sat atop an old brown painted Philco refrigerator. He poured us a cup, one for himself and sat in a padded wooden office chair in front of a padlocked door. He offered us a seat on a bench across from him.
It must have been evident to his two ranch hands that it was coffee time because they showed up, poured a cup, and assumed their places leaning against a post or hanging through the open porch window. Introductions were made, Quattro and Barton. Each one in cowboy working attire, boots, jeans, western shirt, kerchief neatly knotted and a felt Stetson, one black one white.
Quattro, (the black hat) had been with Fargo for over 20 years. He lived down "Quattro Lane" in an Airstream with an adjacent metal building on the property. The land had been deeded to him by Fargo for his endentured service. He had a thick black mustache atop a big handsome grin. He walked stiff legged and we later found out he lost his leg and a few fingers in a car accident. Quattro was happy to walk Becky through the sheds and barns explaining which stage coaches were in which movie and what saddles were straddled by whom.
Barton, (the white hat) had also been with Fargo for decades and lived in a travel trailer down "Barton Lane" under similar ranch-hand benefits. He sat with us, rolled his Bugler smokes and bolstered stories when Fargo's memory gave out or when there was a particular "Fargo story" best told by a third party, or whenever Fargo barked, "Barton, tell 'em 'bout the time..."
It was here by the coffee pot the stories began, here and at similar gathering areas in barns, by fire pits, lofts, bars, and sheds and even a church, all scattered around The Museum Ranch. For the next three days we went back in time and relived the life of a runaway kid, bronc rider, cattle driver, convict, blacksmith, soldier, mule trainer, rodeo clown, Texas Ranger, wagon master, Hollywood set dresser, stuntman, Marlboro Man, animal lover, bird fancier, rancher cowboy by the name of Fargo Graham.
The following is an account of what we heard and learned from Fargo and his long time ranch hands Quattro and Barton. None were braggers or gave any signs of exaggerating or embellishing stories. They were just cowboys who seemed happy to reminise and have someone to listen, ask questions and enjoy their stories of their good ole days.
