September 1971, on the set of *The Cowboys*, John Wayne’s horse refused to leave his side. The crew noticed something that felt impossible: the animal seemed to know Wayne was dying before anyone else did. What unfolded between man and horse over the next seven years would prove that some bonds don’t need words. This is the story of John Wayne and Banner.

New Mexico, September 14th, 1971. The desert location was already pushing 95°F by noon, the kind of heat that turns every breath heavy. Between takes, John Wayne sat on a rock, quietly conserving energy. He was 64, a cancer survivor, and had lived with one lung since surgery seven years earlier.

His breathing was labored in the heat, even when he tried to hide it. That’s when an Appaloosa walked over—unbidden, without a handler. His name was Banner, 22 years old, ancient for a horse. Gray-coated with distinctive spotted hindquarters, he’d appeared in six Wayne films over fifteen years.

Banner stopped beside Wayne and lowered his head, nuzzling Wayne’s shoulder. Wayne reached up and scratched behind the horse’s ears like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Hey, old man,” he murmured. Banner didn’t move—he stayed close, steady, almost protective.

Pete Collins, the horse wrangler, watched from about thirty feet away. He was 55 and had worked with horses for forty years, but he’d never seen behavior like this. Horses typically avoid sickness; it’s instinct—smell, weakness, vulnerability. Banner was doing the opposite.

Pete walked over cautiously. “Duke,” he said, “he’s been following you all morning.” Wayne looked up, confused. “Following me?”

Pete nodded, unsettled. “Walked right past his feed. Walked past the other horses. Came straight to you and hasn’t left.” Wayne kept scratching Banner’s neck as if it meant nothing. “He just wants attention.”

Pete shook his head. “No, Duke. He knows.” Wayne’s jaw tightened. “Knows what?” Pete lowered his voice. “Horses know when someone’s sick—and usually they avoid that person. Banner’s staying with you like he’s keeping watch.”

Wayne cut him off immediately. “I’m fine,” he said, sharper than he intended. Pete backed away, but he didn’t stop watching. What he saw over the next two weeks convinced him animals sensed things people refused to admit.

Banner wouldn’t leave Wayne’s side. Between takes he stood near Wayne’s chair, close enough to touch. During lunch, he positioned himself like a quiet barrier beside Wayne. At day’s end, when Wayne walked toward his trailer, Banner followed until a handler finally led him away.

The crew noticed too. Whispers moved through the set like wind through dry grass. “You seen that horse?” someone muttered. “Won’t leave Duke alone. It’s like he’s guarding him.”

On September 22nd—eight days into filming—they were shooting a simple riding scene. Wayne mounted Banner, rode across the desert, stopped, and dismounted. Director Mark Rydell called action, and Wayne and Banner moved forward on cue.

Thirty yards. Fifty. Seventy-five. Then Wayne swayed in the saddle—just slightly, almost imperceptible. His hand clenched the saddle horn. Banner stopped instantly without a command and stood perfectly still.

The crew thought Wayne was acting. Banner didn’t. His ears pinned back, listening to Wayne’s breathing, his body tense and ready. Wayne leaned forward, breathing hard, and tried to steady himself without drawing attention.

“I’m okay, boy,” Wayne murmured. Banner didn’t move until Wayne’s breathing settled. Only then did he step forward again—slow, careful, as if he were carrying something fragile. They finished the shot, but the moment left the wrangler cold.

Wayne dismounted and his legs nearly buckled. He caught himself on the saddle, and Banner stood like stone. He didn’t flinch or shift—he let Wayne use him for support until Pete and the crew reached them.

“Duke,” someone said, “you need to see a doctor.” Wayne waved it off. “I’m fine. Just the heat.” But the crew could see the truth, and Banner seemed to live inside it.

That evening, Pete led Banner back toward the corral. The horse kept turning his head, looking toward Wayne’s trailer. A low knicker—soft, calling, like a horse searching for its herd. Pete stopped and let him look. “I know, boy,” he whispered. “I know.”

Filming wrapped in October 1971. Wayne returned home to Newport Beach. Banner was transported back to the ranch that owned him, and Pete went along to settle him in. Banner wouldn’t eat or drink; he just stood at the fence, staring 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… I think he’s looking for you.” There was silence on the line. Then Wayne said quietly, “I’ll come tomorrow.”

Wayne drove two hours and walked to the fence. Banner saw him from a hundred yards away, lifted his head, and knickered again. Despite age and arthritis, he trotted to the rails like he’d been waiting for that exact moment.

Wayne climbed through the fence, and Banner pressed his head into Wayne’s chest. Wayne wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck. They stood like that for five minutes—two old bodies holding each other up, both knowing what neither would say aloud.

“I know,” Wayne whispered. “I know, boy.” Banner started eating again that same day, but only after Wayne’s visit. From then on, Wayne came every few months—sometimes when he was filming nearby, sometimes just because he needed to.

They never “did” much. Wayne brought apples or carrots, scratched Banner’s neck, and talked about ordinary things: the weather, the latest film, how his kids were doing. Banner listened with ears forward and soft eyes, as if the sound mattered more than the words. The visits became a ritual—quiet, steady, necessary.

In 1975, Wayne was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Surgery removed most of his stomach, and he lost forty pounds. He looked gaunt and gray, like the life had been thinned out of him.

Three weeks after surgery, he went to see Banner. He could barely walk from the car to the fence. When Banner saw him, the horse’s entire posture changed—ears back, head low, movements careful.

Banner approached slowly, like Wayne might break if touched too quickly. He pressed his nose gently to Wayne’s chest and then simply stood there, breathing with him. Pete watched from the barn with tears in his eyes. In forty years, he’d never seen an animal respond to mortality like that.

By 1976, Wayne was filming *The Shootist*, his final movie. He was dying on-screen and off, and the effort showed in every step. Between filming weeks, he still visited Banner.

Banner was 26 now, very old, moving slowly with a graying muzzle. But his eyes were still bright when Wayne arrived. In the paddock, Wayne leaned against Banner’s shoulder, and the horse supported his weight without complaint.

“We’re both running out of time, old man,” Wayne said softly. Banner turned his head and looked at him. Pete would later say that look carried a truth he never forgot: the horse understood they were nearing the end.

January 1978, Wayne was very sick and could barely leave home. Then he heard Banner was declining fast—barely eating, arthritis severe. The veterinarian said it might be weeks, maybe days. Wayne drove to the ranch anyway, cane in hand.

Pete met him at the gate. “Duke,” he said, “I called you because I think he’s waiting for you.” They walked toward Banner’s stall slowly. Wayne had to stop twice to rest before they reached him.

Banner was lying down, which horses rarely do for long. In daylight, a horse lying down like that often means the body is giving up. Wayne knelt beside him—taking a full ten seconds to lower himself because his knees no longer cooperated.

Banner lifted his head and touched Wayne’s hand with his nose. Wayne ran his hand down Banner’s neck over and over, the same motion he’d used for decades. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Good boy.”

“You’ve been the best horse a man could ask for,” Wayne said, voice cracking. “Carried me through more films than I can count. Never let me down. Not once.” He paused, swallowing what he couldn’t fix. “You can rest now. You don’t have to wait for me anymore. I’ll be okay.”

Banner’s breathing was labored, his eyes clouding, but he kept his nose pressed to Wayne’s hand. They stayed like that for forty minutes—Wayne talking quietly, Banner listening. Pete stood back, giving them privacy, understanding this wasn’t his moment to touch.

When Wayne finally stood, it took Pete three minutes to help him up. Wayne’s knees had locked from kneeling so long. He steadied himself, then said, “Take care of him, Pete.” Pete answered without hesitation. “Always have, Duke.”

Wayne walked away without looking back. He couldn’t—because if he looked back, he knew he’d break. Banner died three days later, peacefully in his sleep, January 28th, 1978. He was 27 years old.

Pete called Wayne with the news. There was silence on the line. Then Wayne said quietly, “He was a good horse.” Pete’s voice softened. “Duke, he loved you. I know that sounds crazy, but horses don’t love many people. Banner loved you.”

Wayne’s voice turned rough. “I loved him too—more than most people would understand.” They stayed quiet for a moment, letting that be true. Then Wayne said, “Send me the bill for his burial.”

Pete tried to refuse. “Duke, you don’t have to—” Wayne cut in gently. “He deserves a proper burial.” Pete buried Banner on the ranch under an oak tree and placed a marker: **Banner (1951–1978), Faithful Companion.**

Wayne sent a check for $500—far more than the burial cost. Pete used the extra money to plant roses around the grave. Every spring, those roses bloomed like a promise kept. Sixteen months later, on June 11th, 1979, John Wayne died.

At Wayne’s funeral, someone asked Pete Collins to speak. He told the story of Banner—the horse who seemed to know, the horse who stayed close, the horse who waited to say goodbye. “Duke played heroes his whole life,” Pete said, “but Banner didn’t care about movies or fame. He just knew the man.”

Decades later, the ranch owner—Pete’s grandson—still tells visitors about the grave under the oak tree. He shows them the weathered marker and the roses that keep returning each year. His grandfather worked with hundreds of horses, he says, but never saw a bond like Banner’s and Wayne’s. It proved, in a way nothing else could, that animals recognize souls—not reputations.

The marker is worn now, but the name still reads clearly: **Banner.** Below it are two carved words that sum up the whole story: **He knew.** And maybe that’s the truest kind of loyalty—presence without language, staying close, staying steady, until the end.