Alf Devore was an old time Arizona cowpuncher and rancher of the best kind. I worked around Alf very little but saw him stop some cattle running off the side of a rough mountain. Alf made it look easy. Alf was there and worked for the Bar 11 when they leased reservation country from the Apaches. He and another cowboy built a rock cabin right up the creek from the Medicine house we lived in. There was a board house there too, that was built later. The Bar 11 ran a pack outfit and stayed out for months at a time. There was an Apache who also ran a crew gathering cattle. I’ll just call him Henry and Henry was catching a lot of long eared cattle. Other natives did not like this. Henry branded an F-something and that brand was on a lot of cattle. Alf said he was asked to shoot Henry but he did not do it.
Alf could tell stories and make a kid’s eyes get big. He told about trotting out one stormy morning. The ground was slick in spots and one of the horses slipped and fell down. Alf said the horse fell on the cowboy and slid off the bank where the wreck started. Alf said the “he” broke “his” leg, “So I stepped off and cut his throat.” My eyes were big and I had trouble swallowing ’til Mrs. Devore poked Alf and he told me he cut the horses’s throat, not the cowpuncher’s.