I Failed You Gene Autry But It Was Partly Your Fault
My earliest television hero was Gene Autry, one of the first of the singing cowboys. In real life, Gene was a man of remarkable accomplishment. Not only did he write “Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer” (and “Snowy the Snow Man”!), but he piloted C-47 transport planes during World War II, founded a broadcasting empire, and even owned a baseball team.
Although he profited handsomely from his many cowboy adventure series, he was a man of principle. He cared about the effect his shows had on us kids. To guide script development he wrote a cowboy code of ethics. Among other things, it declared that a cowboy never takes unfair advantage. He never betrays a trust. And a cowboy is kind to small children, old folks, and animals.
Of course, as a youngster I knew nothing about Gene’s off-screen accomplishments. I just thought he was the greatest cowboy ever. Why, in a single day he might foil a horse thief, rescue a lady from a runaway buckboard, and calm a vigilante mob with a well-chosen song. He could use a gun, though he seldom shot anyone. Perhaps that was because he plugged away with a flinging motion that couldn’t have been very accurate. However, if he did hit a bad guy, it was always a flesh wound to the shoulder intended to slow him down, not kill him.
Gene much preferred to talk sense to someone, along the lines of, “You know, they still hang horse thieves around here.” Failing that, and only if provoked, he’d settle a dispute with a good punch up. Though he was not a tall man and carried a bit of a gut that made his shirt tight across the belly, in a fair fight he could dispatch six or eight bad guys in a row.
The quintessential cowboy, Gene was also good with a rope. For Gene, roping a fast moving little dogie was child’s play. He often opted to lasso a bad guy’s six-shooter right out of his hand.
It was Gene’s roping that got me into trouble. I didn’t have a horse or a loaded six-gun, but I thought I could learn to use a lariat. So I cut a length of clothes line from the reel Mom unwound across the backyard for drying laundry. Soon I was roping everything in sight: Lawn chairs, shrubs, fence posts.
One morning I was roping a fire hydrant and getting bored. I needed to practice some real calf ropin’, something in motion. That something came in the person of a kid named Peter Hendriks. Peter was someone I was encouraged to play with, though he had two strikes against him. First, he was two years younger than me, a big deal when you are eight. Second, he wasn’t normal. He stuttered badly and could only move in a spasmodic way. He asked if I’d play with him. I thought I’d do him a favor: Yeah, I’d play with him. But only if he would be a steer and let me rope him. That was the deal.
“All you have to do is run past me,” I said. “Then I’ll lasso you.”
Peter eyed me suspiciously. He had had many dirty tricks played on him. This smelled like more of the same.
“C’mon, Peter. Really. It’ll be fun.”
Peter balked: “N-n-n-o!” he stuttered. “Won’t do it. Won’t do it!
“C’mon, Peter. It’s only a rope. I’ll just do this,” and I lassoed the fire hydrant again.
Desperate to play with someone, Peter reluctantly agreed.
“OK. Run to that tree,” I said.
As Peter ran past, I whirled the lasso over my head and let fly. Against all odds, the loop sailed neatly over Peter’s head. However, instead of slipping over his shoulders as I envisioned—the way Gene roped bad guys—it tightened around Peter’s neck. He just went crazy, screaming, “Choke! Choke!” I let go of the rope and frantically tried to calm him. But Peter was in a state. He ran across the street to his house, crying all the way.
“Peter! What’s the matter?” his mom called from inside their house. This was bad. She was touchy about Peter, a coiled spring on the best of days. She could be incredibly fierce if she thought anyone was being mean to her boy. And here was Peter red in the face with terror, running toward her with a rope around his neck.
I knew as only a kid can know that there would be no way to explain things. I knew the wrong conclusion would be jumped to. There would be no jury of my peers to pass a fair verdict, no Super 8 footage whose stuttering frames would exonerate me. I needed Gene Autry. If Gene were there beside me sitting tall on Champ, he would have shaken his head sadly, but not for the unintentional act of nearly strangling a boy. He’d be disappointed in me for playing my advantage, using a pure thing, friendship, as a crass bribe.
More than that, he would have taken my part with Mrs. Hendriks, galloping up beside her as she rushed across the street at me. He would sweep her up onto Champ and carry her out across the prairie, galloping, galloping until her rage—at me, at the poor hand her son had been dealt, at life itself—until her rage was spent. Champ would slow to a canter, then a trot, and then stand still. Gene would set Mrs. Hendriks down and calmly explain that what looked like cruelty was just a boy’s stupid mistake, and that she was doing a great job, and the whole world was not against her. Then maybe he’d sing a soothing song with full orchestral backup.
But Gene didn’t crest the hill to come to my aid. Instead, I heard the back door of the Hendriks’ house slam and heard the sharp click of Mrs. Hendriks’ shoes. She was shouting threats in a way that made my head spin.
I ran home as fast as I could.
I knew I shouldn’t go in my house. Mom was out running some quick errands and wouldn’t be there to defend me. Besides, that would be the first place Mrs. Hendriks would look. Instead I had to find an unlikely place, a place that had an exit if things got hot. So I hid behind the garage, poised to escape through a neighbor’s yard if necessary. Soon, Mrs. Hendriks was at our house shouting, “David! Where are you! I’ll find you!” I had never before had such fury aimed at me. She banged on the back door. She even checked the garage. But she didn’t look behind it.
After what seemed like hours, she left. I didn’t move until some time later I heard our car come up the driveway. It was Mom, back from her errands. She was in tears. Peter’s mother had flagged her down as she returned and given her more than an earful.
“How could you, David?” cried Mom. “How could you do that?”
I mumbled my defense but the complexity of the thing was beyond description. Events had overtaken an eight-year-old’s vocabulary.
Peter’s mother, quite understandably, never trusted me after that. Even into adulthood, my character was tainted. I’m happy to say that Peter and I patched up things quickly. Eventually he overcame his impediments and went on to become a talented musician and media specialist. I hung up my lariat for good.
