It was James Arness, the co-star of the film, who introduced the newcomer to the Duke. Out there on location amidst dust and scrub, surrounded by mouse-eared cameras and canvas chairs. Wayne—who was in the middle of a wild, hot-blooded divorce at the time—was standing in his fringed Indian scout outfit with a bunch of sweating men in suits. When Arness called him over, Wayne approached Storm’s father with that patented swagger, thundrous and balletic at the same time. He sent a truly Duke-like gaze off towards the far horizon, then threw himself side-armed into a big handshake, which the newcomer eagerly joined.

“Duke,” said Arness, “this here is Jack Stern.”

Wayne’s gunfighter squint went up and down the younger man. He spoke—and the voice, the twang, the drop-dead Midwestern syncopation all turned out to be genuine.

“Storm,” he drawled slowly, “is the name you want.”

And so he had been Jack Storm in Hondo, in Rio Bravo, and forever after.

And there were many other things—gestures, expressions, phrases—that Storm had inherited from Wayne, through his father, who had imitated them all in developing his persona both onscreen and off. And there was this too, this photograph, that the Duke had presented to Storm personally on his ninth birthday.

Dear Rick, the inscription read, Live right, shoot straight, walk tall—and have a happy birthday. Your friend, John Wayne.

All right, shoot straight—it was a little hard to know exactly what that meant in a modern context. But the other instructions were clear enough, and tonight Storm felt the burden of them. He was pretty sure he had neither lived right nor walked particularly tall in these last few years since his divorce. There had been some drugs, and some women he’d treated shabbily. And a couple of deals that had cost him more than a couple of friends. He had boasted during that time, “I not only swim with the sharks, I sleep with the piranha.” Big man. He wasn’t so proud of that anymore.