My Last Ride with Uncle Wayne
I was six years old when my great uncle, John Wayne, made his last movie. To me, he wasn’t a legend; he was just Uncle Wayne. He was bigger than any tree, his voice rumbled like thunder, and he always smelled faintly of leather and the outdoors. And he had a horse, a chestnut stallion named Duke—just like him—who was just as famous in my eyes.
That horse was his partner. He didn't have a name on the posters, but he was there. I’d heard the grown-ups say they had made over twenty movies together. From a six-year-old’s point of view, they were the ultimate team. On the set of The Shootist, I saw their reunion every morning. Uncle Wayne would walk on set, see Duke saddled and ready, and a real smile would cross his face. They trusted each other.
From my hiding spot behind the big cameras, I’d watch them film. The movie was about a famous cowboy named J.B. Books, who was the best shot in the world but was sick and just wanted to be left alone. The grown-ups called his sickness “cancer,” a word they always whispered. I just thought he was tired. But when he was on Duke, he looked invincible. I remember him saying once, loud and clear for everyone to hear, “I don’t need a double when I’ve got Duke underneath me.”
But even a six-year-old could feel the quiet on that set. Time, as it always does, was catching up.
It was the final day of shooting. After the last take, the director yelled "cut!" and a strange quiet fell. The crew started packing up, but Uncle Wayne stayed back. He stood alone in the dusty light, beside Duke. It was the last time he would ride him.
From where I was watching, I saw him lean in and whisper to his old friend, Duke. I asked him later what he told his horse. He said, "I told him we had a good run, partner. Sorry it has to end. You definitely carried me well."
I saw Uncle Wayne wipe his eye. Not out of pain—but gratitude.
A moment later, he turned from his horse and faced the crew. He looked around at everyone—some new, some who had walked with him for decades. He looked right past the cameras and his eyes found mine for just a second. Then, with that familiar quiet strength, he spoke to them all:
“Thank you… for walking with me to the end of the trail.”
No one moved. Some of the crew lowered their eyes. A few tough-looking men wiped away tears. I didn't fully understand then, but I knew I had seen two goodbyes. One to a horse that knew every line without speaking a word, and one to the people who had shared his journey.
It wasn’t just the end of a film. It was the end of an era.
Now, all these years later, I understand. Legends don’t fade. They leave quietly—etched forever in the hearts of those who believed in honor, grit, and the courage to finish the ride.
🤠🐎 Some heroes ride alone. But the best ones always had a horse beside them.
