Legendary wildlife biologist, Horace Gore, an outstanding shotgun marksman, bird hunter, outdoor journalist, and dog handler is pictured here with his birddog, Ruff. Gore became TPW’s Big Game Program Leader and retired after 33 years. He passed away peacefully on November 21, 2025, at age 92. A Springtime service is pending.
(Photo by John Jefferson)

by John Jefferson

 

My friend, Horace Gore, quarterbacked his high school football team, served two years in the Army, and earned an A&M degree in wildlife.
Gore’s passion for wildlife, his boundless energy, and his willingness to work hard and learn more served him well.

He was a storyteller – one of the best! The fact that he never let the truth interfere with telling a good story could be considered a Writers’ License. He rode that horse well.

He honed a second career as an outdoor writer and speaker, writing for the TPW magazine and others. His speaking audiences seldom looked at their watches.

I met him at a party to introduce my book about deer hunting. Gore was the only TPW employee that attended — wearing a suit, Stetson hat, and boots — looking like a Texas rancher.

We soon became friends and hunted the Hill Country, South Texas, and Colorado.

He confided around a campfire about his early career, saying he only had two guns go off inside.

As a young wildlife biologist in Brownwood, he’d shoot empty cans after work behind his motel with a .22 revolver, wearing his black cowboy hat. Thinking he was out of ammo, he stepped back into his room at dusk. He saw a man dimly in a mirror wearing a black hat. He turned to face him.

Horace told me he said, “Black Bart, this town ain’t big ‘nuff for both us.” He reached for his holstered pistol … and drew it. Black Bart simultaneously drew his. An unexpected explosion from his six gun was immediately followed by the tinkling of falling glass.

After cleaning up mirror glass, he bought a cheap painting and hung it over a small hole in the wall. The other time his gun went off unexpectedly, the bullet merely lodged in the mattress.

Another evening around another campfire, he made me promise to say a few words at his funeral. He probably hoped I would tell only the better ones but omit the ones I wouldn’t tell in Sunday School.

We rode countless dusty trails. We sat by campfires watching flames burn to mere embers. We fished, hunted, and even honchoed projects like that 1,400 – attendee regional wildlife conference at Hemisfair.

We had a falling-out once. Later, he mumbled a late-night apology. All friends should value treasured friendships.

I suffered with him over his wreck. And marveled over how he tried to dodge the oncoming collision. My comments amused him and mentioned that the out-of-control hearse that hit him was transporting a cadaver. It popped out of the hearse onto the highway during the collision. Gore laughingly said he guessed the cadaver was the only one that wasn’t hurt.

I tell that to show how Horace Gore lived his life — finding rainbows after storms, finding something amusing instead of carrying negative memories of hurtful situations.

He taught me a lot. But that may have been the most important thing. I really miss Horacio.

God rest his soul.

JJ