1893 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



813 



tions, with an understanding to meet at tiie 

 rendezvous at three o'clocl<. The Rambler 

 hunted so fast, and secured so little game, that 

 he arrived at the rendezvous at 11 o'clock. 

 That bed of pine needles at the foot of a tall 

 pine-tree, and that delightful shade, and that 

 saddle, so nice for a pillow, were all so inviting 

 that I threw myself down at full length, and, 

 such a refreshing nap as was enjoyed! When 

 I awolve I found Mr. Squires frying bacon over 

 a little fire a few rods away, and we had our 

 dinner. We were just discussing about what 

 we should do about waiting for the rest of our 

 company, when Mr. Ferguson tramped into 

 camp. His game was a gray squirrel. The 

 deer that he went after did not materialize; 

 but he had some very important news for us, 

 and said that he came by the ranch of Fred 

 Heap, about a mile distant, and learned that 

 Gustav Bohn, a bee-keei)er, had been killed, 

 shot by Charley Button. Mr. Squires and my- 

 self were immediately interested, and, leaving 

 a written notice to our absent hunter where to 

 find us. we saddled our horses and went over to 

 the Heap ranch, and arrived at about the same 

 time the coroner did, and all three of us were 

 immediately empanneled on the jury. Eight 

 jurymen answered for the purpose, and we 

 were conducted to the barn where the remains 

 of Gustav Bohn lay upon a pile of straw, rolled 

 in a blanket. 



The uncovering of the body revealed to us a 

 bloody spectacle. The bullet that had ended 

 Mr. Bohn's earthly career had passed through 

 the fleshy portion of the forearm, entering the 

 left breast, and, passing diagonally through the 

 body, came out near the right armpit. Besides 

 this wound and its attendant blood there was a 

 deep gash under the right eye, and the frontal 

 bone appeared to be broken. The story of the 

 killing is, briefly, as follows: 



Early one Sunday morning in August four 

 men and a boy met in a camp known as Deep 

 Creek. A man named Clark had a cabin there; 

 and, though he had no license to sell whisky, 

 he had brought in for that purpose fifteen gal- 

 lons. The four men and the boy set out to have 

 a little Sunday picnic, as they lermed it, and 

 were going a few miles further to Fish Camp 

 to hold it. Previously to starting, the treating 

 process was indulged in, and the party began 

 to feel remarkably well. There was, further- 

 more, a quart and a pint bottle taken along for 

 future use. The principals in the tragedy, Mr. 

 Bohn and Mr. Button, were strangers to each 

 other, having met here for the first time. From 

 the first their conversation took a chafing 

 turn, and continued to increase in acidity as 

 the party proceeded, and as they from time to 

 time stopped to partake of the contents of the 

 pint bottle. The party were all mounted, and 

 Mr. Bohn had the quart of whisky in his pos- 

 session. On the way to Fish Camp, Mr. Bohn 

 fell from his horse, being partly dismounted by 

 a lead horse. Arriving in camp, the horses 

 were unsaddled and picketed. The lad, who 

 bad not drank any of the whisky, aud who was 

 the only sober one in the party, was directed to 

 build a fire; and, while gathering the wood, he 

 saw Mr. Bohn lie down with his head on a 

 rock. Button and Bohn continued to bandy 

 profane and angry words, and Bohn, having 

 lost his quart bottle of whisky, accused Button 

 of stealing It. This angered Button, so that he 

 shouted to Bohn to stop his talk or he would 

 smash him. This only angered Bohn the more, 

 and the volley of words continued; and, be- 

 sides, Mr. Bohn laid his hand on ihehiltof a 

 dirk-knife wliich he carried in a sheath in his 

 belt. Button, suiting his action to his words, 

 kicked (or, rather, stamped) Bohn in the face 

 with his heavy nail-clad shoe, making the se- 



vere wound before mentioned. Bohn immedi- 

 ately staggered to his feet with dirk in hand, 

 and with blood streaming down his face; but 

 Mr. Heap snatched the knife away from him, 

 and threw it into the bushes. Mr. Bohn then 

 grasped his gun, which was leaning against a 

 large pine-tree, and, raising it, snapped it at 

 Button. There was no cartridge in the cham- 

 ber; and as he moved the lever to throw a car- 

 tridge into place. Button leveled his rifle. The 

 men shouted to Bohn to put down his gun, but 

 he drew it to liis eye; but before he pressed the 

 trigger. Button fired. Bohn dropped his rifle, 

 threw up his hands, stepped back three steps, 

 and fell upon his back a dead man. This un- 

 looked-for event had the effect of sobering the 

 party somewhat, for they were in a state of 

 deep intoxication. Not one of them had the 

 courage to stay with the body in that lonely 

 camp until the coroner could be summoned; 

 and the ghastly operation was performed of 

 lashing the dead body to the saddle that had 

 brought in a live man, and he was thus carried 

 to the residence of Fred Heap, where we saw 

 his remains. 



bohn's extractor. 



The jury of eight rendered two verdicts. One 

 said that Mr. Bohn came to his death by a gun- 

 shot wound at the hands of Charles Button. 

 The other four, evidently taking a little dift'er- 

 ent view, desired to exonerate Button by put- 

 ting in the plea of self-defense. The court 

 afterward, in the preliminary examination, 

 held that Button was blamable to such a degree 

 that he was put in jail without bail, and is now 

 awaiting trial upon the charge of murder. 



After the coroner's jui'y arose, the body was 

 rolled in blankets again, and taken to San Ber- 

 nardino for interment. The little log cabin in 

 which we neld our deliberations was perched 

 upon one of the most picturesque points upon 

 the top of the mountain. All of the valley be- 

 low, with its towns, was before us, while fully 

 60 miles away we could see the haze of the 

 Pacific Ocean, and the little mountain project- 

 ing through it from Catilina Island. 



Gustav Bohn was a German, aged 35, a stout, 

 medium-sized man, with dark complexion, 

 black hair, and full beard. He had been in this 

 country 17 years, and for a few years past has 



