But he knew people and he was head writer for Have Gun Will

Majel Barrett, a voice and presence woven into the very fabric of television history, once declared: “But he knew people and he was head writer for Have Gun Will Travel, and if you took those early Star Treks that we did and put us in a western wardrobe and put us on wagon train going west, we can say the same lines.” Though her words recall the industry of television and the craft of storytelling, beneath them lies a deeper wisdom. She reveals that the setting of a tale may change—whether spacefaring starships or western wagon trains—but the essence of the human story remains unaltered.

When Barrett speaks of Have Gun Will Travel, she invokes the age of the Western, when men rode horses across dusty plains, confronting danger, justice, and survival. These stories, simple in their imagery, were grand in their moral scope. The hero stood between chaos and order, between lawlessness and civilization, carrying not only a weapon but also a code. In comparing Star Trek to these Westerns, Barrett unveils the truth that both genres are but different garments for the same eternal narrative: mankind’s journey into the unknown.

Indeed, the wagon train going west and the starship journeying among the stars are mirrors of one another. Both set forth into untamed frontiers, both meet strangers who may be friend or foe, both ask questions about justice, courage, and survival. The costumes may be spurs or spacesuits, but the dialogue of the soul remains unchanged. Barrett’s observation reminds us that true storytelling is not bound to place or time—it is bound to the eternal struggles of the human condition.

History confirms this. Consider Homer’s Odyssey, where the hero wanders seas, meeting strange peoples, facing monsters, and longing for home. Now strip away the waves and replace them with desert plains, and you have the Western. Replace them instead with the void of space, and you have Star Trek. The story is the same: the journey outward, the discovery of the other, the struggle to remain human in alien lands. Barrett’s words echo across centuries, showing that all tales are variations of the great epic of man.

And there is a lesson here in humility. Barrett acknowledges that the brilliance of these works lies not only in their spectacle, but in the understanding of people. The head writer who shaped these tales knew hearts, fears, hopes, and longings. Costumes, settings, and technologies are but surface adornments; it is the knowledge of human nature that gives life to dialogue and makes stories endure. The wise storyteller, then, is not merely an inventor of worlds, but a student of the soul.

Thus, the teaching is clear: art may change its clothing, but its heart remains eternal. Do not be distracted by the glitter of setting, whether ancient battlefield or futuristic starship. Seek instead the humanity beneath—the courage of the hero, the fear of the wanderer, the longing of the exile, the justice sought by the weary traveler. These are the roots that nourish every tale, the truths that speak across cultures and ages.

So, O seeker of wisdom, learn to see the unity in stories. When you read or watch, do not ask only where the story takes place, but what truth it reveals about being human. Let Barrett’s words guide you: the same lines spoken in a dusty saloon may be spoken on the bridge of a starship. And in both, the audience will recognize themselves, for the story of mankind is always one of journey, discovery, and the search for meaning.

Therefore, let her teaching endure: “Put us in a western wardrobe or on a starship, and we can say the same lines.” For settings may pass, fashions may fade, but the story of humanity—our struggles, our courage, our hope—remains ever the same. And it is this eternal story that binds us all, from wagon trains to galaxies.