The air of authenticity that defined Dale Robertson for six decades on screen was, by his own admission, a mask he wore comfortably, but the contempt he held for one of Hollywood’s most polished leading men was no act. Less than a decade after his death at age 89, new details have emerged from archival interviews and private correspondence revealing the depth of the Oklahoma-born cowboy’s fury toward Robert Taylor, a fury that never dimmed.
Robertson, who passed away on February 26, 2013, after a battle with lung cancer and pneumonia, reserved a singular, unrelenting hatred for Taylor, a man he saw as the embodiment of everything hollow and corrupt in the motion picture industry. While Robertson shared sets with giants and earned respect for his stoic professionalism, the former Army lieutenant refused to bury the hatchet, repeatedly stating that his animosity was not a passing feud but a permanent scar on his memory.
The root of the discord, sources confirm, was not a battle over a script or a romantic rivalry, but a matter of moral courage, or the lack thereof. Robertson, wounded twice in World War II and decorated with the Bronze Star, built his life around loyalty and integrity, principles he found severely wanting in Taylor’s conduct during the Red Scare hearings of the 1940s and 1950s.
Taylor’s decision to cooperate with the House Un-American Activities Committee, naming names of colleagues in the entertainment industry, was the unforgivable sin that forever soured Robertson’s perception of the actor. To the man who had endured the brutality of the Pacific Theater, the act of informing on fellow professionals was tantamount to treachery, a betrayal that no box office success or on-screen charm could ever excuse.
Robertson viewed Taylor’s testimony not as a necessary evil of the era, but as a calculated act of self-preservation that sacrificed the careers and livelihoods of others to protect his own gilded status as MGM’s golden boy. In private notes, Robertson described the moment he learned of Taylor’s actions as a point of no return, a moment that clarified the difference between a man who fought for his country and a man who only fought for his own reflection.
Beyond the political betrayal, Robertson’s disdain was also deeply personal, rooted in a fundamental clash of masculine values. He saw Taylor as the antithesis of the rugged, honest cowboy he portrayed and the man Robertson himself truly was, dismissing Taylor’s polished demeanor and meticulous grooming as a facade of vanity rather than a sign of professionalism.
Colleagues who worked with Robertson on sets like Tales of Wells Fargo and Iron Horse recall that the veteran star rarely spoke of Taylor, but when he did, his usually calm drawl would harden into something sharp and cold. He often quipped that Taylor was more concerned with the part in his hair than the depth of his character, a dismissal that spoke to Robertson’s belief that style could never replace substance.
The irony of the feud was not lost on Robertson, who acknowledged that audiences often lumped them into the same category of western heroes, yet he insisted the comparison was an insult to his very being. He felt that Taylor played at being a cowboy from the safety of the studio lot, while he had actually lived the life, riding horses out of necessity and surviving the grit of a dusty, pre-war Oklahoma that knew nothing of makeup artists.
A former production assistant on the set of Dakota Incident, where he worked in the mid-1950s, reported that Robertson once spotted a photograph of Taylor in a director’s office and audibly scoffed, muttering that he should have put that photo through the shredder along with any sense of decency the man possessed. Such outbursts were rare, but they were always remembered, painting a picture of a man who could not tolerate pretense.
Robertson’s own journey to stardom was an accident of fate, a story he told with relish to contrast his own authenticity with Taylor’s manufactured rise. He had been recovering from his war wounds when a simple photograph taken for his mother was spotted by a talent scout, catapulting him into an industry he had never desired, a fact that made him skeptical of those who craved the spotlight with such obvious desperation.
His time in the Army with the 32nd and 332nd Combat Engineer Battalions, and later the 101st Cavalry, forged a worldview that placed brotherhood above all else. In that brotherhood, the idea of betraying a comrade to save oneself was a violation punishable by the deepest shame, and Robertson measured Hollywood’s players by that same unforgiving military standard.
The 1950s were a precarious time for actors, with careers hanging in the balance as the HUAC sweep cast a dark shadow over the industry. While Taylor chose to align himself with the committee, Robertson remained silent and defiant, refusing to engage in what he called the witch hunts, a decision that endeared him to some but might have cost him bigger roles, a price he was willing to pay for his soul.
In later life, during his stint hosting Death Valley Days and starring in JJ Starbuck, Robertson often reflected on the difference between a hero and a popular figure. He argued that true heroism was about sacrifice, referencing the men he left behind in the mud of the Pacific, while Hollywood heroes merely read lines written by others, and men like Taylor were merely actors playing at being patriots.
The personal relationship between the two men was reportedly non-existent, with sources stating that they never shared a meaningful conversation on the few occasions they were at the same industry functions. Robertson actively avoided Taylor’s company, a silent cold war that spoke louder than any public outburst, a testament to the finality of his judgment.
Robertson’s fourth wife, Susan Robbins, with whom he shared a quiet life in Oklahoma for more than three decades, later hinted that her husband kept a special place in his heart for forgiveness, but that Robert Taylor was permanently excluded from that grace. She recalled that even in the serenity of their ranch, the mention of Taylor would cause Robertson to stiffen, a ghost of old anger passing over his weathered features.
The hatred was not born of jealousy, as some speculated, since Robertson’s own career was remarkably successful, making him a star in his own right with the massive hit Tales of Wells Fargo. Rather, it was a matter of character, as Robertson viewed Taylor’s lack of political courage as a fundamental character flaw that overshadowed any cinematic achievement he might have claimed.
Robertson’s service record, which included being wounded twice and earning the Bronze Star for valor, was the shield he used to deflect any criticism of his own hardline stance. He felt that having bled for his nation granted him the moral authority to judge those who took no such risks, yet compromised others to stay safely within the confines of their Beverly Hills mansions.
As the years passed, the film industry evolved, and many of the wounds of the blacklist era began to heal, but Robertson’s resolve remained ironclad. He told interviewers in the late 1980s that time had not softened his opinion, and as he approached his final decade, he expressed a grim satisfaction that he had stuck to his guns, a phrase he meant both metaphorically and in tribute to his western roles.
Medical records now show that during his final treatment for lung cancer in San Diego, Robertson would often lapse into lucid memories of his past, and a nursing aide recalled him once staring out a window and whispering about the ones who sold their brothers for a pat on the back. While he did not name Taylor that day, the context left no doubt as to whom he was referring, a final flash of the fire that burned within him.
The comparison between the two men’s legacies is stark, with Taylor often remembered for his iconic films and his role as a founding member of the Motion Picture & Television Fund, while Robertson is remembered as the actor who walked away from the Hollywood game to find peace. Yet for Robertson, the legacy was about standing up for the little guy, which he believed Taylor never did.
In the final analysis, Dale Robertson’s hatred for Robert Taylor was not a trivial celebrity squabble, but a deep-seated moral conviction that defined his later years. It was a reminder that for some men of that generation, the lines between right and wrong were drawn in blood, and there was no room for negotiation or sellouts, even decades after the smoke had cleared.
Robertson’s passing at 89, surrounded by the quiet dignity he had always sought, closed a chapter on a type of Hollywood masculinity that was rapidly becoming extinct. But the story of his grudge serves as a fascinating footnote to his biography, illustrating that the strongest characters he played were merely mirrors of the man he truly was, a man who refused to forgive a betrayal he considered unforgivable.
The footage of Robertson in his prime, riding through the plains of Iron Horse or standing stone-faced in Return of the Texan, takes on new meaning in the light of this revelation. His performances were not just entertainment, but a declaration of values, a living testament to the fact that he would rather be a real cowboy in Oklahoma than a fake one next to Robert Taylor in the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
As archival materials are reexamined and biographies are updated, the definitive record will show that while Dale Robertson’s career was a triumph of authentic American grit, his memory harbored a cold, unyielding ember of hatred for a man he held responsible for a moral failure far worse in his eyes than any fictional villain he encountered on set.
He used to say that a man’s word was his bond, and by that measure, Robert Taylor had broken his bond a thousand times over in the 1950s. Robertson never let the public forget the distinction he drew between himself and Taylor, often noting that while Taylor was the studio’s creation, he was his own man, forged in the Great Depression and tested in the fires of war.
Robertson’s disdain has been cited by film historians as one of the most enduring personal animosities of the golden age of television. While other feuds faded with time and reconciliation, this one stood as a granite monument to his unyielding nature, ensuring that even in death, his opinion remained a matter of public record and a topic of discussion among those who study the era.
The final words of his career, given in a 2011 interview shortly before the severity of his illness was known, were a reflection on the state of the world. He lamented the lack of honesty in public life, and without prompting, drew a parallel to the past, referencing those who had whitewashed their souls for silver-screen success, a thinly veiled reference to his long-deceased rival.
Dale Robertson’s hatred was a living thing, kept alive by a refusal to let time erase the memory of a political cowardice he saw as an American betrayal. It was a stance that cost him nothing, but defined everything, marking him as a man who valued the unseen principles of honor and loyalty above the ephemeral glories of Tinseltown, even to his last breath in a San Diego hospital.
