Wanganui man Barry Shaw was 15 years old when he first met 25-year-old Mr Horne.
Mr Shaw's uncle Cecil Shaw had a farm at the top of the Ahu Ahu Valley when the two met.
"He was as fit as anybody you would ever find and had huge energy."
Mr Horne was the roadman and had a cottage at Raorikia near the Kauarapoua Junction.
The teenager looked up to the roadman and the two became life-long friend.
Mr Horne loved a good pig hunt and lived by the maxim that he never sold pork or eel to Maori, he always gifted it to them.
His biggest pig trophy was the 300lb boar that had been attacking new lambs every year on the Shaw farm.
Mr Horne was told the pig print was as big as a yearling steer, to which he responded, "That's bullshit; do not pass comment until you have caught the bugger."
The teenager and pig hunter arranged to meet at 4am the next morning.
"He came yodelling down the valley. He could yodel like an angel," remembered Mr Shaw.
Mr Horne's and the Shaw's dogs found the boar and baled him up in a tomo.
"You had better get up off the ground Barry, because if I miss him he'll come out like a Mack truck," warned Mr Horne.
Mr Shaw said he was already up a manuka tree by now as he watched Mr Horne, holding a manuka branch, swing out over the tomo with his rifle aimed toward the boar.
The shot rang out, entered the boar's jugular and exited his shoulder - out of the tomo he roared with the dogs holding on, and managed to get a few metres before he succumbed.
Mr Horne declared he was not leaving his prize boar in the bush, he wanted a photo.
They then got two ponga logs and rolled the boar on to them.
Mr Horne crouched and the boar was rolled on to his back.
His legs shook under the weight of the boar, but Mr Horne got his photo and carried the boar back to his cottage.
Another bushman's yarn was when Mr Horne was in Wanganui and drinking at the Federal Hotel on Market Pl.
A 10-pound bet was wagered that Mr Horne could not lift the weight scales outside the hotel and carry it across the road and back.
He lifted the scales and took off across the road, touched the building and was on his way back when the police arrived.
Mr Shaw thinks the publican called the police because he thought his scales were being stolen.
The police stopped Mr Horne, but he was not about to lose his bet, and put up a fight. He had to be handcuffed and it took six policemen to carry the scales back outside the hotel.
In Raetihi he was known as Mr Wolf.
"If he had a fight in the pub with more than one person, and copped a hiding, he would go around to each guy's house early in the morning and knock on the door. He would "knock knock knock ... punch."
Mr Horne's eldest son Nelson said the whanau recently went on excursion to the Bridge to Nowhere and into the Mangapurua Valley which was their father's old stomping ground as an opossum trapper.
They met up with Tom Mowat, one of their father's old mates who is still hunting in the area, and stayed the night at his campsite.
"Everything Nelson did was a battle. Every job, problem or issue needed to be conquered, improved, perfected or beaten," Mr Mowat said.
Mr Horne is survived by his 14 children.
