(119) THESE were the last of the buffalo family getting this far east, to my knowledge -- July, 1872 -- but that summer and the next antelope and deer were very abundant, and, in some instances, very tame. Antelope stood around on the heights, staring at us while at work, much of the time. One day while my nephew, Luty Bennett, was driving the breaking team,-- our two yoke of young steers, with a horse on the lead, the ground being dry -- we were breaking clear across the quarter east and west to and from the house. We had been to the west line and turned back, when here came an antelope, running along the side opposite to us, about seventy yards off. It would stop and stand looking until we got a piece ahead, then it would run up even; sometimes a little ahead. We kept quietly moving along till we got over half way through, when I told Luty to go to the house and get the needle gun and I would move slowly along with the team, and did so till he came up with the gun. We stopped the team -- the antelope stopped also. I laid the muzzle of the gun on the plow rung, took aim at his heart, only seventy-five yards away, standing broadside to me, and fired, never touching it. The gun, being sighted for a long distance, overshot. So much the better for the antelope, but some disappointment to the plowman. However, it was an advanced lesson in antelope hunting; but plenty as they were we didn't get much of their meat. But we got about thirty acres broken on our claims.

     "Just about that time the grasshoppers began to light down, and like the falling of large snowflakes they (120) continued to drop until the earth seemed literally covered. There could be no place found where they were not, and in twenty-four hours every stalk of corn, potatoes, cabbage, turnips, beets, beans, melons, and pumpkin vines were all destroyed. Watermelon vines were eaten so clean we could scarcely find enough stem to the vine to tell where the hill was. Our small grain was quite good, and as we had it in the shock they did not damage it at all. It was too ripe and dry for them -- they liked something green and tender. They would not even feed on prairie grass if they could find something that suited them better. They would keep flying low and hunting till they got what they wanted, and got well rested, then in from three to five days, when the wind got to blowing the direction they desired to go, they would rise and fly away, generally going south."

     The following is a part of Mr. Bennett's description of the April storm:

     "It began with rain on Easter Sunday toward evening, April 13, 1873. It found the settlers poorly prepared for such severe weather, and not suspecting a bad storm so late in the spring, all the stable we had was a twelve-foot space cut out of the east side of our straw pile, some forks stuck up and poles laid into them, then poles and brush laid on and covered over with straw; the front banked up part way only. My nephew had a team of horses and I had two yoke of oxen, a cow, and a calf. The cattle were running loose to the hay stack.

     "By Monday morning the snow was flying about as thick as it could, apparently. It had swirled into our stable until the horses stood belly deep in the snow, and the cattle had all left the haystack, come to the stable, and crowded in among the horses. We took the cow, horses, calf, and chickens into the sod house, thinking the oxen would stand it all right in the stable, little dreaming the storm would last so long and get so terrible bad as it did; therefore, it was toward evening before we went out to look after them. Starting in the direction of the stable, (121) which was nearly northwest from the house, we had to face the storm, and by the time we would get a couple of rods from the house we could not see it, and did not dare to go farther for fear of getting lost. Having a lot of poles we had hauled up for wood -- three or four inches thick and ten or twelve feet long -- we concluded to try a row for a guide. So one of us stood by the house, and the other took a pole and went as far as he could and still see the house, stuck the pole upright in the snow, and then went ahead as far as he could see back to that one and stuck another, and kept on doing so till we found the stable; taking six poles, I believe. On arriving at the stable we found it chuck full, of snow and the oxen buried in it. We happened to have a shovel and a spade both handy, and the snow, being damp, packed hard enough so that we could cut it out in chunks as large as a man could lift and tumble out of the way. We soon opened a channel into where the cattle were, and then consulted a little as to what was best to do with them to save them, as it was evident we had to get them out or lose them, as there were no signs of the storm ceasing, but it was if possible getting worse.

     "My nephew thought we had better take them into the house, but I could not see how we could get along with them all in the house. Our doorway being in the east end, near the south side, the wall being four feet thick, the door large and hung near the inside, made room for two of them to stand quite well sheltered from the wind and storm, so I led them to the house, one by one, along the stake row, and gave them a good feed of corn, having just before the storm hauled a load from down toward Norfolk. They crowded up close together and seemed to stand tolerable quiet and comfortable, as it was not very cold. We thought that, or rather hoped, the storm would cease before morning. One of us had to stay up all night and keep the lamp burning, to keep what animals we had in there quiet, and to keep up a fire to melt the fine, sifting snow that was constantly being driven by the wind through the crevices of our slab roof, and to dry away the water, (122) and each took our turn standing guard till daylight appeared.

     "This was Tuesday morning, and upon stepping out into the wind, a man could scarcely stand or keep his breath; and his eyes, in a moment, would be filled with snow so he could not see any distance at all, and the wind got around more into the north and was very cold. It had driven my oxen around south of the house, and one of them was gone, the other three were shivering with cold and were very uneasy. I could now see no way to save them but to take them into the ark, and they didn't need any driving, -- only to show them an open door; they went in as freely as did the animals into Noah's ark. We drove pegs into the wall to tie to, and kept them as quiet as we could for twenty-seven hours longer. This was Wednesday morning and the wind had lowered and the storm ceased so we could see the surrounding valley, but the wind was cold and the snow, being damp and compressed by the wind, then frozen solid, made it like ice, so that man or beast could walk on it with safety, no matter how deep it was."

     Mr. Bennett next proceeds to relate his experience in hunting for his lost ox. He started out on Thursday morning and hunted all day without finding him, or hearing anything of him, and stopped over night with Jim Stanton in Rae valley. He then continues the narrative thus:

     "Friday morning the sun rose bright and clear and it was a very warm day. Soon after we got our morning refreshment I set out again on my ox hunt. I thought I would go back two or three miles farther east than I came over, so I started eastward, passing near where Petersburg now is; sun shining very warm. When I reached the summit of the Beaver divide I came to a pile of sod about two feet high, and each way I could see more right along the highest points of the divide. I followed it southeast to where it turns down a point toward the Beaver valley, then changed my course and steered for the Cedar settlement right across the hills; sometimes on (123) bare ground, for by this time the hot sun had melted away the thin places of snow. I came up on a ridge from where I could see down into a ravine ahead, and I saw two deer feeding in a place where the snow had melted away and the green grass had started before the storm. I pointed toward them and hissed the dogs a little, and they saw them and went for them, getting tolerably close before they saw the dogs coming.

     "They did not go far till the dogs stopped one of them, and when I got there the greyhound had it by the throat and the shepherd dog by the nose. I took out my pocketknife and was going to cut its throat, when it made a flounce, striking the shepherd dog with its front feet and knocking him loose, and started to run, with the greyhound hanging to its throat. It did not get very far till it was anchored again, and when I got to it that time the shepherd dog had it by the ear. I caught it by both hind legs and threw it, holding to one leg with one hand, my knee across its neck, and both dogs holding fast. With my other hand I took out my knife, cut its throat, and when it was dead, dressed it in good order, dug a cave in a snowdrift, buried the meat and hide in it, and then traveled on for the settlement. About dark I found my way to William Duncan's on Cedar Creek, both tired and hungry. There I heard of my lost ox. He had got back to my brother's, where he had been wintered, the evening the storm ceased, so weak he could walk only a few rods without resting.

     "Now comes the most remarkable part of my story, yet it is true. To tell you that a snowstorm in the middle of April filled the Elkhorn River so much above the banks that it could not be told where the river was, and that solid enough to drive horses and wagons over, and no ice underneath either, is a hard story, but true. David Duncan, brother of William Duncan, stayed over night at Mr. Duncan's the same night I got there on my ox hunt, and he told me he crossed that day not far from where Neligh now is, with horses and wagons, and could not tell where (124) the river was. Saturday being another nice, warm day, I led my ox to the sod mansion. In the afternoon we got our horses and went after our venison. The snowdrifts were getting so soft we were afraid to try the wagon. On the way we saw quite a large drove of antelope. The wolves had not disturbed our meat. As the snow melted we found lots of dead prairie chickens, meadow larks, and spring birds that had perished in the storm. Also cattle and horses perished; some in stables and some out."

     [NOTE. -- Mr. Bennett seems to fear that his account of the crossing of the Elkhorn with a team on a snowdrift might be doubted. This fact was, however, well known to many old settlers. The place where Mr. Duncan crossed was on section 34, Neligh township. Other parties are said to have crossed the Elkhorn on a snowdrift near the Yellow Banks in Madison County. Mr. C. H. Frady, Sunday school missionary, also states that he crossed the Elkhorn on a snowdrift, on foot, in the Hopkins settlement, the same year, and that the snow was so solid he could easily have driven over it with his team. The writer also conversed with Mr. Duncan and got the facts from him personally.]