John Wayne Picked Up Two Hippie Girls— What He Did Next Was Unexpected

Be honest.

If you were driving down a hot, empty highway in the summer of 1971, and you saw **two hippie girls** hitchhiking on the side of the road—long hair, dusty skirts, anti-war buttons—
**Would you stop?**

And if you saw **John Wayne**—the Duke himself—behind the wheel of a big American car, with **two hippies in the back seat**…
Would you even believe your own eyes?

Most people wouldn’t.

Hippies and John Wayne were supposed to be **opposites**.
They belonged on different planets, different movie screens, different sides of the nightly news.

But one day in New Mexico, in the blistering heat of 1971, those worlds collided on a lonely strip of asphalt.
Nobody planned it.
Nobody expected it.

And what happened next says more about **character, judgment, and grace** than a thousand speeches ever could.

This is that story—told slowly, the way memory holds onto moments that matter.

—

## 1. The Road, the Heat, and a Man Called Duke

Summer, 1971.
New Mexico.

The highway is a thin black line cutting through an ocean of desert.
On either side: sand, scrub, distant hills shimmering in the heat. The sun hangs high and merciless, baking the metal of passing cars, turning the horizon into a wavering mirage.

Behind the wheel of one of those cars is a man the whole world knows, even if they’ve never met him.

**John Wayne.**

He’s 64 years old.
He’s already survived lung cancer—one lung gone, a scar on his chest to prove it.
Most men his age and in his condition would be retired, quietly sitting at home, telling stories to grandchildren.

John Wayne is driving to work.

The work is a movie: **“The Cowboys.”**
A Western about an aging rancher who hires schoolboys to drive cattle because all the grown men have gone off in search of gold. It’s a film about responsibility, leadership, manhood, and what it means to guide lost boys into becoming men.

Wayne is the star.
The crew is waiting for him.
The production is expensive. Time is money. Every day of filming matters.

He’s alone in the car.
No entourage. No assistant. No driver.

The windows are rolled down. Hot desert air roars through the cabin, pushing the smell of dust and sunbaked earth into the car. The radio plays low—country music, slow and steady, a familiar comfort against the endless road.

For a while, it’s just him, the road, and the music.

Then he sees them.

—

## 2. Two Figures on the Shoulder

At first, they’re just shapes in the distance.
Two dots standing on the right shoulder of the highway, blurred by the heat.

Wayne squints through the glare of the windshield as he gets closer.
The shapes sharpen into **two young women**. They’re standing with their thumbs out, the classic hitchhiker’s pose.

As the car approaches, the details lock into focus:

– Long, uncombed hair—one blonde, one brunette.
– Loose, flowing skirts.
– Beaded necklaces, homemade jewelry.
– Sandals caked with dust.
– Backpacks slumped at their feet.

They’re not tourists.
They’re not army wives.
They’re **hippies**.

The kind the newspapers and TV shows have been talking about for years.
The kind protesting the war in Vietnam, chanting in the streets, clashing with police, burning draft cards.

Wayne’s first instinct is immediate, almost automatic:

**Drive past.**

In his mind, their image is wrapped in every story he’s heard:

– Anti-war demonstrators spitting on soldiers as they return from Vietnam.
– Protesters calling veterans “baby killers.”
– Flags burned, uniforms mocked, cops called “pigs.”

He’s a man who loves his country.
He has played soldiers, sheriffs, cowboys—symbols of duty and order. He’s the embodiment of a certain America, and these girls? They look like they belong to the opposite one.

His foot stays on the gas.

The car roars closer, the girls’ hair whipping in the hot wind, their faces turned toward him in hope that’s been disappointed a hundred times that day.

Wayne could pass them.
Everyone would expect him to.

But something doesn’t let him.

Maybe it’s the **emptiness** of the road—no cars for miles in either direction.
Maybe it’s the **heat**—too brutal for young girls to be stuck in for long.
Maybe it’s the simple fact that, underneath the beaded necklaces and dust, they’re just **kids**. Barely older than the boys on his movie set.

Whatever the reason, his hand moves.
He eases off the gas.
He flicks on the turn signal, pulls over to the shoulder.

The car slows, gravel crunching under the tires, and stops.

The girls stare for half a heartbeat, not quite believing their luck. Then they move—grabbing their bags, running in sandals that slap against the pavement.

They yank open the back door and climb in, faces flushed, sweat-beaded, breathing fast.

“Thank you so much,” the blonde says.

Wayne glances in the rearview mirror, gives a small nod, and pulls back onto the road.

The door closes on the highway behind them.
None of them knows it yet, but all three of their lives have just shifted a few degrees.

—

## 3. Silence in the Back Seat

The car fills with an awkward, heavy silence.

Wayne keeps his eyes on the road.
The girls sit in the back, backpacks on the floor, knees pulled close, not sure what to do with their hands or their eyes.

Nobody speaks.

The radio hums quietly—a steel guitar and slow vocals, a country lament about heartbreak, miles, and home. It’s the soundtrack of Wayne’s America: ranches, small towns, long roads.

But in the back seat, something else hums under the blonde girl’s breath.
A different rhythm. A different world.

Rock and roll.
Rebellion.
The sound of a generation trying to tear itself away from the one in the front seat.

He hears it.
He doesn’t comment.

After nearly a full minute of silence, the brunette leans forward slightly between the seats. Her voice is careful, half-afraid of the answer.

“Wait… are you—are you John Wayne?”

Wayne doesn’t look back.
He keeps his gaze on the road, on the shimmering horizon.

“That’s what they call me,” he says.

The girls almost vibrate with a strange mix of excitement and confusion.

They’re sitting in the back seat of a car on a New Mexico highway with **John Wayne**—the man they’ve seen on posters, billboards, and movie screens. The man their parents watched in dark theaters while newsreels from another war flickered before the main feature.

And yet, they don’t know how to talk to him.

The silence returns.

—

## 4. Hippies and the Duke

Wayne breaks it first.

“Where you headed?” he asks, his voice sounding like gravel and tobacco and years of being listened to.

“Albuquerque,” the blonde says. “We’re trying to get to a commune there.”

A commune.
The word lands between them like a stone.

Wayne doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t roll his eyes.
He doesn’t argue.

He just drives, watching the yellow centerline flick past. The radio keeps playing. The girls shift in the back seat, their bracelets clinking softly, their eyes darting to each other and back to the back of his head.

For a long moment, the world is just:

– The hum of the engine
– The buzz of the tires
– The heat pressing against the metal

The girls know who he is.
They know what he stands for—at least, what the world says he stands for.
Cowboys. War movies. Patriotism. Authority. Everything people like them are supposed to reject.

Finally, the brunette speaks again.

“Mr. Wayne… can I ask you something?”

He shrugs slightly. “Go ahead.”

“Why did you stop for us?”

He could say because he felt like it.
He could shrug it off as no big deal.

Instead, he tells the truth.

“Couldn’t leave you out there,” he says.

The brunette looks down at her hands. “Most people do.”

“I’m not most people,” Wayne replies.

He says it simply, matter-of-fact. No swagger, no bragging. Just a statement of fact from a man who has spent his entire life doing things his own way, for better or for worse.

The blonde leans forward now, emboldened by having spoken once and survived.

“You make war movies, don’t you?”

Wayne’s jaw tightens slightly.

“I’ve made a few,” he says.

“Don’t you think that’s wrong?” she presses. “Glorifying war. Making it look heroic when it’s really just murder?”

The car goes dead quiet.

There it is.
The clash everyone expected the moment John Wayne picked up two hippies.

Wayne could explode.
He could slam on the brakes, order them out, tell them to get back on the shoulder and wait for someone else.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he asks a question.

“What’s your name?” he says.

The blonde hesitates. “Jennifer.”

“Jennifer,” he says, “you ever been to war?”

She shifts uncomfortably. “No.”

He nods, eyes still on the road.

“Then maybe don’t judge what you don’t understand.”

She opens her mouth to argue, to throw back something she’s heard at a rally or read in a pamphlet. Then she sees his reflection in the mirror—tired eyes, deep lines, a man who has outlived some of his own friends, survived a disease that could have killed him.

She closes her mouth.

Sits back.

The brunette reaches over and gently touches Jennifer’s arm. A small, silent message:
**Let it go.**

—

## 5. A Brother in Vietnam

Wayne looks at the brunette in the mirror now.

“What’s your name?”

“Elizabeth,” she says softly.

“You feel the same way Jennifer does about war?”

Elizabeth takes a breath, then answers in a voice laced with something heavier than politics.

“My brother went to Vietnam over a year ago,” she says. “We haven’t heard from him. No letters. No word. Nothing.”

The air in the car changes.

Wayne’s expression softens, just a fraction.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“That’s why I’m out here,” Elizabeth continues. “I couldn’t stay home. Couldn’t sit in that house wondering if he’s alive or dead. So I left. Found the movement. Thought maybe it would help, but… it didn’t. I’m just lost.”

Jennifer squeezes her hand. “We’re from the same neighborhood,” she says. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. Now we’re just trying to figure out what to do.”

Wayne looks at them in the mirror again—really looks.

The beads, the skirts, the hair, the politics… it all falls away for a moment.

He doesn’t see “hippies” anymore.
He sees **two scared kids** on the side of the road, trying to make sense of a world that’s come apart.

Hungry.
Tired.
Far from home.

—

## 6. “I’m Not Giving You Money”

“When’s the last time you ate?” Wayne asks.

The girls glance at each other, embarrassed.

“Yesterday morning,” Jennifer says. “Someone at a gas station gave us some chips.”

Wayne nods slowly.

He knows that kind of hunger. He’s seen it in real life, on movie locations in Mexico, on trips with the USO, in the faces of extras who lined up for work because they needed more than a paycheck—they needed dinner.

He makes a decision.

“I’m not giving you money,” he says.

Their faces fall just a little. They weren’t asking, not directly, but they were hoping.

“But,” he continues, “if you’re hungry… you can work.”

They look up.

“I’m heading to a film set,” he says. “We need people. Cooking. Cleaning. Basic work. You do the job, you earn your food. That’s honor. You interested?”

Jennifer stares at him.

“You’re… offering us jobs?” she says.

“I’m offering you a chance to **earn**,” he corrects. “Big difference.”

Elizabeth’s voice is barely above a whisper. “We don’t have anywhere to stay.”

“We’ll figure that out,” Wayne says. “But first, you work. Deal?”

The girls exchange a look—one of those quick, wordless conversations that only old friends can have.

Then they nod.

“Deal,” Jennifer says.

“Deal,” Elizabeth echoes.

Wayne gives a small nod and focuses on the road ahead.

The car rolls toward a future they didn’t expect.

—

## 7. Organized Chaos: The Set of *The Cowboys*

An hour later, they crest a rise and the film set sprawls below them like a temporary town.

Trucks. Trailers. Horses in corrals.
Camera cranes. Light stands. Cables snaking across the ground.

Men in jeans and hats hauling gear. Women with clipboards and radios, checking schedules and shouting instructions. Extras in cowboy costumes. Dust clouds rising behind moving vehicles.

Organized chaos.

Wayne parks the car.

He steps out—hat on, boots hitting the dirt with the kind of presence that makes people straighten up without realizing they’re doing it.

The girls step out of the back seat, clutching their bags. They look around, wide-eyed. This is not a small student film or protest documentary. This is a **real Hollywood production** dropped into the middle of the desert.

Two worlds crashing together again:

– The polished machine of the film industry.
– Two road-worn girls with hand-sewn skirts and calloused feet.

As Wayne walks, they follow a few paces behind, like uncertain shadows.

People notice.

Crew members glance up from coiling cables or carrying equipment. Extras pause mid-conversation. A wardrobe assistant stops in the doorway of a trailer, watching.

John Wayne has just arrived with **two hippie girls**.

No one says anything out loud.
But in the quiet glances, the raised eyebrows, the half-hidden smirks, you can almost hear the thoughts:

What’s going on?
Who are they?
Why are they here?

Nearby, the **set photographer** is doing his job—circling the production, capturing candid behind-the-scenes shots for the studio archive.

He spots Wayne striding across the lot with the girls behind him.

The composition catches his eye.

The aging movie star.
The young women.
The clash of eras and attitudes all in one frame.

He raises the camera.
Focuses.
Clicks.

The shutter sound is lost in the noise of the set.

None of them notice.

But the moment is frozen—an image that will sit in a file cabinet for years, holding a story no one thinks to ask about.

—

## 8. “These Young Ladies Have Lost Their Way”

Wayne reaches the production manager’s trailer and knocks.

A man in his 40s opens the door, script pages in one hand, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He smiles when he sees Wayne.

“Duke,” he says. “What’s going on?”

Then he sees the girls behind him.

The smile shifts into confusion.

Wayne doesn’t explain, doesn’t apologize.

“These young ladies have lost their way,” he says. “I’m sure we can find work around here for them.”

He points, dividing responsibilities as clearly as if he were assigning roles on a cattle drive.

“One can help in the kitchen. One can help with cleaning and laundry. They’ll need a place to stay, too. Can you arrange that?”

The production manager glances from the girls back to Wayne.

He’s not about to argue with **John Wayne** on his own set.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Good,” Wayne says. “Get them cleaned up, fed, put them to work.”

He turns to Jennifer and Elizabeth.

“Do the job. Show up on time. Work hard. You’ll be fine.”

Then he walks away toward his trailer, already shifting his focus to the day’s scenes, dialogue, blocking, camera setups.

The girls are left standing there in the dust, hearts racing, trying to process what just happened.

They arrived as strangers on the side of the highway.

They’re now employees on a John Wayne film.

—

## 9. Work, Not Charity

Over the next few days, their world changes.

Jennifer is assigned to the **kitchen**, working with the cook. She peels potatoes, chops vegetables, washes dishes, helps prepare meals for the cast and crew.

Elizabeth is assigned to **laundry and cleaning**. She washes costumes, scrubs counters, changes linens in the trailers, sweeps floors.

It’s not glamorous.
It’s not easy.
But it’s **steady** and **real**.

They get:

– Three meals a day.
– A place to sleep.
– Clean clothes.
– A structure they haven’t had in months.

For the first time in a long time, life has a rhythm: wake, work, eat, sleep.
No more hustling for rides, no more begging for food, no more unsure where they’ll be by nightfall.

They’re not getting handouts.
They’re **earning** their place.

And that matters more than they realized it would.

But while the work is simple, the social terrain is complicated.

Not everyone on set is thrilled to have **two hippie girls** suddenly appear under the Duke’s protection.

Some crew members keep their distance.
Some watch them with suspicion or quiet contempt.
Others simply avoid engaging at all.

At lunch, the divide is most obvious.

The cast and crew sit at long tables under a tent, eating from metal trays. Conversation buzzes—jokes, complaints, gossip about Hollywood, talk of home.

Jennifer and Elizabeth get their food, tray in hand, and look around.

Every table is full.

But when they approach, nobody scoots over. Nobody waves them in. Nobody says, “Sit here.”

So they do what people on the outside always do.

They find a corner table at the edge of the tent.
They sit **alone**.

Heads down.
Eating quietly.
Trying not to take up too much space.

Day after day.

—

## 10. The Lunch That Changed Everything

One day, Wayne comes through the line for lunch, just like the others. Plate in hand, he moves past the servers, gets his food—meat, potatoes, vegetables.

Normally, he’d take his lunch to his trailer, away from the noise. He’s earned that comfort. He’s the star. Nobody would think twice.

But as he looks across the tables, he notices something.

All the big tables are full—groups of crew, actors, extras. Laughter, loud stories, clattering silverware.

And in the corner, **one small table**.

At it, alone: Jennifer and Elizabeth.

Nobody near them.
Nobody talking to them.
Heads bent over their trays like they’re trying to disappear.

Wayne doesn’t announce anything.
He doesn’t clear his throat or ask for attention.

He just walks.

Across the tent, straight toward the back corner.

The noise in the room dips slightly as people notice where he’s heading. Conversations falter. Eyes track him.

He reaches the corner table.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks.

The girls stare at him, stunned. “Uh… no. Of course not,” Jennifer stammers.

He lowers himself into the seat. The bench creaks under his weight. He sets his tray down and starts eating like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For a few seconds, nobody speaks. The air around the table is tight with shock.

Then he asks, “How’s the work going?”

They answer cautiously.

“Good,” Elizabeth says. “We’re learning a lot.”

He nods. Takes another bite. Makes a dry joke about the food, something about the cook being able to turn boot leather into stew. It’s not even that funny—but Jennifer laughs, a quick, startled laugh. Then Elizabeth laughs too.

Wayne smiles.

And there it is.

For the next thirty minutes, they talk.
Not about politics. Not about war. Not about communes or protests or Hollywood.

They talk about:

– Where the girls are from.
– Elizabeth’s brother.
– The heat.
– The horses on set.
– How weird movie-making looks from the outside.

If you were watching from a distance, you wouldn’t see a legend and two outcasts.
You’d see something else:

A man who looks like a father eating lunch with two daughters.

Around them, the rest of the tent watches.

Nobody loudly comments, but internally, lines are shifting. Barriers are cracking.

If John Wayne—the man whose name is on the posters and whose face fills the screen—
If **he** can sit at a table with these two girls…

Then maybe they’re not outsiders after all.

—

## 11. The Shift

The next day at lunch, Wayne eats in his trailer again.

He doesn’t repeat the gesture.
He doesn’t need to.

The message has already been sent.

Slowly, the atmosphere changes.

A grip gives Jennifer a nod when she comes in for breakfast.
A wardrobe assistant asks Elizabeth how her day is going.
An assistant director cracks a joke as they pass in the hallway.

Nothing dramatic. No big speeches, no group apology. Just little, ordinary interactions that say one thing:

**You belong here.**

The cold stares fade.
The nervous distance disappears.

Jennifer and Elizabeth are no longer the “hippie girls John Wayne picked up on the highway.”
They’re **part of the production**.

They keep doing their work.

Jennifer gets better in the kitchen. Learns to cook for crowds, to time dishes, to keep things moving. She starts to find joy in feeding people, in seeing tired crew sit, eat, and relax for a few minutes because of what she made.

Elizabeth becomes sharper, more organized. She keeps costumes in order, spaces clean, laundry cycles moving like clockwork. There’s a quiet pride in seeing the set run smoothly and knowing she’s a small piece of that invisible machinery.

They sleep in clean beds.
They wake up to an alarm, not uncertainty.
They go to bed tired, but not scared.

—

## 12. The End of Filming—and Two New Lives

Weeks later, filming wraps.

The last scenes are shot, the final call of “Cut!” echoes across the set, and suddenly the whole temporary town begins to dismantle itself.

Trucks are loaded.
Trailers are packed.
Props are stored.
People hug, exchange numbers, say “Let’s work together again” even though most of them probably won’t.

Wayne doesn’t forget the two girls.

He doesn’t give a tearful farewell speech or write them into a movie.
He does something smaller—and far more practical.

He makes sure they receive **references**.

Simple letters on production letterhead:
These women worked on *The Cowboys*.
They showed up.
They did the job.
They were reliable.

In the world of work, those letters are gold.

Jennifer uses that foothold. She continues to work in kitchens—restaurants, catering jobs—for the next twenty years. It’s hard work, but it’s honest. She has a skill now, something she can fall back on, something that keeps her grounded.

Elizabeth cleans houses, then eventually starts her **own cleaning business**. She gets clients, builds trust, and over time, she builds a life: marriage, kids, stability—everything that looked impossibly far away on that New Mexico highway.

They never see John Wayne again.

He moves on to other films, other sets, other roads.
They move on to other towns, other jobs, other years.

But they **never forget**.

—

## 13. “John Wayne Gave Me a Job”

In **1995**, nearly a quarter of a century later, a small local newspaper in New Mexico decides to run an anniversary story about *The Cowboys*.

A reporter starts tracking down people who worked on the production: actors, extras, crew, anyone who can offer a memory, a quote, a detail.

Someone mentions a name: **Elizabeth**.
She used to work on the set, they say. Something about cleaning. Something about her having… a story.

The reporter calls her.

On the phone, he asks:
“What was it like working with John Wayne?”

Elizabeth pauses.

The years haven’t erased the memory. If anything, they’ve sharpened it, distilled it. She doesn’t talk about camera angles or film schedules. She talks about something else.

She tells him:

– About the highway.
– About hitchhiking with Jennifer.
– About being hungry and lost.
– About the big car that slowed down.
– About realizing who was behind the wheel.

She tells him about the film set.
The work.
The lonely lunches.
And the day John Wayne carried his tray to their table and sat down.

“He didn’t save us with money or speeches,” she says. “He saved us by giving us work. By sitting with us when everyone else wouldn’t. By showing us we mattered. We were just lost kids. He gave us a path back.”

The reporter asks about her brother—the one who went to Vietnam.

Elizabeth’s voice softens.

“He came home in 1973,” she says. “Two years after I met Mr. Wayne. He found me working, clean, living a normal life. He asked what happened to me.”

She smiles at the memory.

“I said, ‘John Wayne gave me a job.’”

The article runs.

It’s not a national headline. It’s not a big magazine spread. It’s a small, local human-interest piece tucked between local news and sports scores.

But it captures something that doesn’t show up in filmographies or biographies.

It captures **character**.

—

## 14. The Photograph

Years later, someone is going through the **production archives** of *The Cowboys*.

Boxes of old contact sheets, negatives, and prints—behind-the-scenes photos that never made it to posters or press kits. A visual history of days that once felt huge and now live only in fading paper.

In one of those boxes, a photograph appears:

– The film set in the background: trucks, equipment, crew.
– Dust in the air.
– The blur of movement and work.

And in the center of the frame:

John Wayne walking toward the production office.

Behind him, just a step or two back, are **two young women** with long hair and beaded necklaces.

Jennifer and Elizabeth.

None of them are looking at the camera.
None of them know this moment is being preserved.

To most people, it’s just a **random behind-the-scenes shot**.

To anyone who knows the story, it’s a snapshot of a turning point:

Two lost girls on a highway.
A man who could have driven past.
A chance offered.
A door opened.

—

## 15. What This Really Teaches Us

It would be easy to make this story about politics.

To say: here’s conservative John Wayne helping liberal hippie girls, and doesn’t that mean something?

It does. But not in the way talk shows and headlines usually mean it.

This story is not about who was right or wrong about Vietnam.
It’s about something older and simpler:

**How you treat people who don’t look like you, don’t think like you, don’t live like you.**

John Wayne saw:

– Two young women whose lifestyle clashed with everything he believed in.
– Hair, clothes, attitudes, worldviews—alien to his own.

He could have judged them and driven past.

He almost did.

But he saw **past** the beads and the politics long enough to notice something else:

They were hungry.
They were alone.
They were in danger on that road.

He didn’t preach at them.
He didn’t hand them cash and speed away, buying himself a clean conscience.

He did something harder—and more respectful:

He offered them **work**.

Not as punishment.
Not as humiliation.

As dignity.

“You can earn your food,” he said. “That’s honor.”

And when the people around him judged them—kept their distance, sat at other tables—he didn’t call a meeting or scold anyone.

He carried his tray across the room.
He sat down at **their** table.
He ate with them, laughed with them, and in 30 quiet minutes, rewrote the social rules of the entire set.

That’s leadership.

Not slogans.
Not speeches.
Just **showing up physically** where it costs you a little bit of status and comfort.

—

## 16. The Power of One Choice

Jennifer and Elizabeth could have disappeared.

They were on that edge where thousands of young people have slipped:

Communes that turned ugly.
Drugs that swallowed whole years.
Bad roads. Bad rides. Worse men.

They might have drifted into a haze of lost 20s, waking up years later wondering where their lives went.

Instead, they got:

– Structure
– Work
– Skills
– A sense that they mattered

Because one man—old, one lung, driving to a job he didn’t actually need to keep—
**Stopped.**

He opened his car door when he didn’t have to.
He opened a job to them when he didn’t owe them anything.
He opened a table to them when others wouldn’t share the bench.

Two lives bent in a different direction because of **one decision** on a hot day in New Mexico.

—

## 17. The Question That Comes Back to Us

John Wayne could have driven past.
Nobody would have blamed him.
Nobody would have even known.

But **he** would have known.

And two young women’s lives would have been very different.

He knew something we are in danger of forgetting:

We are all on the same road.

Different politics, different music, different clothes, different stories—
But the asphalt under our feet is the same.

Sometimes, the difference between a life lost and a life rebuilt is just this:

Somebody **stops**.
Somebody **opens the door**.
Somebody says, “I’m not giving you money. I’m giving you a chance.”

So before you scroll on, ask yourself honestly:

If you saw someone from “the other side” stranded on the road today—
Someone whose bumper stickers you hate, whose haircut you mock, whose politics make your blood boil—

**Would you stop?**

Would you drive past, satisfied that they’re “reaping what they sowed”?
Or would you listen to that small, stubborn voice of conscience that John Wayne listened to in 1971?

Because they really **don’t** make men like the Duke anymore.

But nothing says we can’t try to be a little more like him.