He Knew: The Last Bond of John Wayne and Banner

Prologue: New Mexico, September 1971

The high desert sun pressed down on the set of “The Cowboys” like a heavy hand, baking the sand and scrub brush until the world shimmered. It was the kind of heat that made men old before their time, and John Wayne felt every year of his sixty-four as he sat on a sun-bleached rock between takes, breathing carefully, one lung doing the work of two.

Away from the bustle of crew and cameras, Wayne wiped sweat from his brow and watched the horizon. He’d survived cancer seven years before, but the ghost of it still haunted his body—his breath short, his chest tight, his stamina not what it used to be. He didn’t complain. Cowboys didn’t. But those who knew him best saw the toll.

That day, as the crew worked and the director shouted orders, an Appaloosa horse wandered over, unbidden. No handler leading him, no tug of the reins. Banner was old by horse standards—twenty-two, gray coat flecked with black spots, a living relic of six Wayne films over fifteen years. He stopped beside Wayne, lowered his head, and gently nuzzled Wayne’s shoulder.

Wayne smiled, reaching up to scratch behind Banner’s ears. “Hey, old man,” he murmured.

Banner didn’t move. He just stood close, protective, as if anchoring Wayne to the earth.

Thirty feet away, Pete Collins watched. The horse wrangler, fifty-five, had spent forty years reading horses, and he’d never seen anything like it. Horses avoided the sick. It was instinct—smelling disease, sensing weakness, getting skittish and pulling away. But Banner did the opposite.

Pete walked over, boots crunching the gravel. “Duke, he’s been following you all morning.”

Wayne looked up. “Following me?”

“Since you got here. Walked right past his feed, past the other horses, came straight to you. Hasn’t left.”

Wayne scratched Banner’s neck. “Just wants attention.”

Pete shook his head. “No, Duke. He knows.”

“Knows what?”

“Horses know when someone’s sick. They sense it. Usually, they avoid that person. But Banner—” Pete paused, searching for words. “He’s staying with you because he knows you’re not well. He’s keeping watch.”

Wayne’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine, Pete. I said I’m fine.”

Pete backed off, but he kept watching. What he saw over the next two weeks convinced him that animals understood things humans couldn’t explain.

Chapter 1: The Guardian

Banner wouldn’t leave Wayne’s side. Between takes, he stood near Wayne’s folding chair. During lunch, he positioned himself close enough to touch. At the end of the day, when Wayne walked to his trailer, Banner followed until his handler led him away.

The crew noticed. They whispered, “You seen that horse? Won’t leave Duke alone. It’s like he’s guarding him.”

Eight days into filming, September 22nd, the director called for a simple riding scene. Wayne mounted Banner, ready to ride across the desert, stop, and dismount.

“Action!”

Wayne and Banner rode thirty yards, fifty, seventy-five. Then Wayne swayed in the saddle, just slightly. His hand gripped the horn harder. Banner stopped immediately—no command, no signal. He just stopped, standing completely still.

Wayne leaned forward, breathing hard. The crew thought he was acting. But Banner knew. The horse’s ears went back, listening to Wayne’s breathing. His body was tense, ready.

Wayne straightened slowly. “I’m okay, boy.”

Banner didn’t move until Wayne’s breathing steadied. Only then did he walk forward, slow and careful, as if carrying something fragile.

They finished the shot. Wayne dismounted, his legs nearly buckling. He caught himself on Banner’s saddle. The horse stood like stone, letting Wayne use him for support until Pete and the crew reached them.

“Duke, you need to see a doctor.”

“I’m fine, just the heat.”

But everyone knew Wayne was weakening. The cancer was winning. And Banner knew it, too.

That evening, as Pete led Banner back to the corral, the horse kept turning his head, looking back at Wayne’s trailer. A low knicker, the sound horses make when calling to their herd.

Pete stopped. “Let Banner look. I know, boy. I know.”

Have you ever had an animal sense something about you that no human could see? That connection goes deeper than we understand.

Chapter 2: Grieving

Filming wrapped in October 1971. Wayne returned home to Newport Beach. Banner was transported to the ranch that owned him, Pete Collins going along to settle him in.

But Banner wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink. He just stood at the fence, looking toward the road.

Pete called Wayne. “Duke, I don’t know how to say this, but Banner’s grieving. He won’t eat. I think he’s looking for you.”

Silence on the line. Then, “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

Wayne drove two hours, arrived at the ranch, walked to the fence. Banner saw him from a hundred yards away, lifted his head, knickered, and trotted to the fence despite age and arthritis.

Wayne climbed through the rails. Banner pressed his head against Wayne’s chest. Wayne wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck. They stood like that for five minutes—man and horse, both old, both damaged, both knowing what the other wouldn’t say.

“I know,” Wayne whispered. “I know, boy.”

Banner started eating again that day, but only after Wayne’s visit.

Chapter 3: Years of Quiet Visits

Over the next seven years, Wayne visited Banner every few months. Sometimes he was filming nearby and would stop by. Sometimes he drove two hours just to see the horse. There was never any fanfare, no entourage or press. Just a man and his horse.

Wayne brought apples or carrots, sometimes just his presence. He’d scratch Banner’s neck, talk to him about nothing important—the weather, the latest film, how his kids were doing. Banner listened, ears forward, eyes soft, as if he understood every word.

Pete Collins watched from the barn, always amazed at the quiet exchanges. He’d seen hundreds of horses, worked with dozens of stars, but nothing like this. Banner didn’t act this way with anyone else. It was as if the horse had chosen Wayne as his herd, his family, and Wayne returned the feeling.

In 1975, Wayne was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Surgery took most of his stomach, and he lost forty pounds. He looked gaunt, gray, and older than his years. Three weeks after surgery, Wayne insisted on visiting Banner.

He could barely walk from the car to the fence. Banner saw him, and the horse’s entire body changed. Ears back, head low, he walked to Wayne slowly, carefully, like approaching something breakable. Banner touched Wayne’s chest with his nose—gentle, so gentle. Then just stood there, breathing with him.

Pete watched from the barn, tears in his eyes. Forty years with horses and he’d never seen an animal understand mortality.

Chapter 4: Final Film, Final Days

Wayne was filming “The Shootist,” his final film. He was dying on screen and off. Between filming weeks, he visited Banner. The horse was twenty-six now, very old, moving slow, gray muzzle, but his eyes were still bright.

They stood together in the paddock. Wayne leaned against Banner’s shoulder. The horse supported his weight without complaint.

“We’re both running out of time, old man,” Wayne said.

Banner turned his head, looked at Wayne. In that look, Pete swore he saw the story of the next forty years. The horse knew—they wouldn’t have much longer.

In January 1978, Wayne was very sick. He could barely leave home, but he heard Banner was declining fast. Not eating well, arthritis severe. The veterinarian said maybe weeks, maybe days.

Wayne drove to the ranch, cane in hand. Pete met him at the gate. “Duke, I called you because I think he’s waiting for you.”

They walked to Banner’s stall slowly. Wayne had to stop twice to rest. Banner was lying down. Horses don’t lie down much—it’s hard on their organs. A horse lying down in daytime is usually dying.

Wayne knelt beside him, taking ten seconds to get down. His knees wouldn’t bend right anymore. Banner lifted his head, touched Wayne’s hand with his nose. Wayne ran his hand down Banner’s neck, over and over, the way he’d done for twenty-seven years.

“Good boy. Good boy. You’ve been the best horse a man could ask for. Carried me through more films than I can count. Never let me down. Not once.” Wayne’s voice broke. “You can rest now. You don’t have to wait for me anymore. I’ll be okay.”

Banner’s breathing was labored. His eyes were clouding, but he kept his nose pressed to Wayne’s hand. They stayed like that for forty minutes. Wayne talking quietly, Banner listening, Pete standing back, giving them privacy.

Finally, Wayne stood. It took Pete three minutes to help him up, his knees locked from kneeling so long.

“Take care of him, Pete.”

“Always have, Duke.”

Wayne walked away without looking back. He couldn’t. If he looked back, he’d break.

Banner died three days later, January 28th, 1978, peacefully in his sleep, twenty-seven years old.

Chapter 5: Farewell and Memory

Pete called Wayne with the news. There was silence on the line, then Wayne spoke, voice rough:
“He was a good horse. The best I ever worked with. Thank you for taking care of him.”

“Duke, he loved you. I know that sounds crazy, but horses don’t love many people. Banner loved you.”

Wayne paused, emotion heavy in his words. “I loved him too. More than most people would understand.”

They were quiet for a moment. Then Wayne said, “Send me the bill for his burial.”

“Duke, you don’t have to—”

“He deserves a proper burial.”

Banner was buried on the ranch under an old oak tree. Pete placed a simple marker with Banner’s name and dates:
Banner 1951–1978
Faithful companion.

Wayne sent a check for $500, far more than the cost. Pete used the extra to plant roses around the grave. The scent of them filled the air each spring, and the marker weathered but remained legible.

Sixteen months later, on June 11th, 1979, John Wayne died at home, surrounded by family. At his funeral, someone asked Pete Collins to speak. Pete told the story of Banner—the horse who knew Wayne was dying before anyone else, who waited to say goodbye, who gave a loyalty deeper than words.

“Duke played heroes his whole life,” Pete said, voice steady though his hands shook. “But Banner didn’t care about movies or fame. He just knew the man, and he loved the man. That’s the truest kind of loyalty there is.”

Chapter 6: The Story Lives On

Forty-three years later, Pete’s grandson owns the ranch. Visitors sometimes ask about the old marker under the oak tree, the roses blooming every spring. He tells them the story, just as his grandfather did:

“My grandfather said he worked with hundreds of horses, but never saw a bond like Banner and John Wayne. He said it proved animals know things we can’t—that they know souls, not reputations. Banner knew John Wayne’s soul better than most humans ever did.”

The marker is weathered now, but still bears Banner’s name. And beneath, two words carved deep:
He Knew

Those words sum up everything. The horse that knew Wayne was dying, that knew he needed company, that knew love doesn’t require language—just presence, just standing close, just staying until the end.

Banner gave Wayne that comfort. And in return, Wayne gave Banner something most horses never get—a name remembered, a grave honored, a story told. Because loyalty deserves memory, and love deserves to be spoken, even if it’s between a cowboy and his horse.

Epilogue: The Bonds That Endure

Sometimes, visitors stand quietly by Banner’s grave, the roses in bloom, the wind moving through the oak leaves. They ask the ranch owner, “Do you really think animals know when we’re hurting?”

He always answers the same:
“I know they do. Banner did. And John Wayne knew it too.”

What’s the most profound connection you’ve ever had with an animal? Sometimes, they understand us better than people do. In the end, Banner’s gift was simple—he stayed. He knew. And sometimes, that’s all we need.

And these days, people say they don’t make men like John Wayne anymore. But maybe, just maybe, the world still makes horses like Banner.