—About 80 miles from here.
—Get me a car.
—Duke, it’s your day off. You should rest.
—I’m not going to rest. I’m going to see those children.
The assistant gets him a car. Wayne drives himself. Eighty miles on rural Montana roads. Two hours. No entourage, no press, no cameras. Just him in a rental car, following directions to a one-room schoolhouse.
She arrives at 2 p.m. There’s class. She can hear voices inside, children reciting something.
She knocks on the door. The room falls silent. Margaret opens it, sees John Wayne standing there… and drops the book she was holding.
—Sr. Wayne…
—I hope I’m not interrupting.
The 12 students are frozen, staring. Several are speechless. A girl starts to cry. Not from sadness: from being overwhelmed.
Wayne enters. The room is tiny. One large room, 12 desks, a wood-burning stove in the corner, a blackboard, an American flag, and at the back, the projector mounted on a table, with 10 film canisters stacked beside it.
Did you receive everything I sent you?
Margaret cannot speak, she can only nod.
Wayne walks over to the projector and touches it.
—Have you been using it every Friday?
Margaret finally manages to say:
—The children eagerly await it all week.
Wayne turns to the students: 12 pairs of eyes fixed on him; some scared, some excited, all incredulous.
—I received your letter, from all of you. Thank you for what you wrote. It meant a lot.
A small voice from the front row:
—Did you read my sentence?
Wayne looks. A girl, maybe seven. Blonde braids. Sarah.
—Yes, I read it. You said I’m the bravest cowboy. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
Sarah blushes. She smiles.
Wayne spends the next three hours with them: answering questions, signing autographs on notebook paper, telling stories about filming, showing them how to pull off a scene, how to fall without getting hurt, how to make a shootout look real. He asks them what they’ve learned from his movies.
They respond:
—Courage, honor, standing up for what is right, never giving up, helping those weaker than you.
Wayne listens. He really listens. These kids understand him. They grasped the lessons he was trying to put in every movie, even when he didn’t know that’s what he was doing.
Near the end of the afternoon, a boy raises his hand. Small, dark hair, serious face. Tommy, 8 years old.
—Sr. Wayne…
