THE SUMMER of '73 was a busy season in the settlements. White-topped prairie schooners with their quota of brawny homeseekers were now common sights in the valley. Everywhere were there signs of settlement.

     The older colonies steadily grew outward, and the space between them was steadily becoming smaller, till indeed farm-places occupied the river course in a continuous chain from Scotia to Willow Springs at the mouth of Jones' Canyon, and were even pushing beyond The Forks into the unorganized territory. From St. Paul and Loup City settlers were pushing northward along the Middle Loup and settling that part of Valley county. Early in '73 the foundations of Brownville, or Arcadia were laid and an interesting community, whose history will be chronicled in later pages, took its beginning.

     Much prairie was broken during the months of April, May and June, and quite a large acreage of sod corn planted. The "back-setting" of the previous season was sown with small grain, or planted with corn and potatoes. Considered as a whole the yield was fair; and this was indeed fortunate for disastrous years were even now to come upon the settlements.

    The summer passed away peacefully enough. The prowling Indian for some reason steered clear of the Valley, and had not since the Sioux Creek Fight molested any of the farmsteads. Fall and beautiful Indian summer came, and still no signs of him. But with the setting in of winter Indian signs became numerous. And hunters and trappers began to encounter small parties in the hills east of the river. Soon bands returning from unsuccessful raids upon the Pawnees, driven by hunger, openly entered the settlements, begging and stealing. This led to another fight, the most memorable in our frontier history--the so-called Battle of Pebble Creek. George McAnulty who was one of the chief actors in this tragic fray recounts the causes and chief points of interest thus: "During the spring and summer of '73, quite a number of settlers, attracted by the great beauty (124) of the valley at that point, and by the fertility of its soil, took claims in what was called the Goodenow settlement, the writer--then a boy of twenty-one-being one of the number, had homesteaded the land now known as the Jas. Barr farm near Burwell. On the east side of the river the settlement extended up as far as the old town of Willow Springs, or as it was known then, "the mouth of Jones' Canyon." The settlers were all more or less afraid of the wandering bands of Indians, that from time to time passed near the valley on their way to the Pawnee reservation, but as month after month passed in safety it seemed as if the Sioux had decided not to favor us with any further visits. This feeling of security was suddenly dispelled.

     "On the evening of Jan. 18, 1874, a cold, stormy Sunday afternoon, with the wind driving the snow in blinding sheets over the wild, unbroken prairie, in a lull in the storm, some hunters of which the writer was one, beheld a large party of Indians surrounding the residence of Richard McClimans, near Willow Springs. Mr. McClimans' family at that time, consisted of himself, his parents and his brother Newton, and that home was one of great hospitality, Mrs. McClimans being noted for her kindness of heart, extending to all a sincere welcome which was never lost on a weary traveller. But on this occasion the good lady's hospitality was sadly abused. The Indians dismounted, crowded into the house and proceeded to hold high carnival. They devoured everything eatable in the house and were even then far from satisfied. They prowled around the place like so many wolves, eating everything they could find, finally killing all the chickens within reach. And at that time chickens were very valuable on the frontier. At last, about three o'clock in the afternoon, without any friendly thanks for what they had received, they left the McClimans ranch, and to the relief of the family started up the river.

     "About half a mile above McClimans' was the home of the trappers, and who of the old settlers do not remember the trappers, as they were called. Their house was a red cedar one, strongly built. At this particular time, Cy, Haney, Bill Wirtz, the Sawyer boys, the Baker boys, Charley White (Buckskin Charley) and Marion Littlefield were out on a hunting and trapping trip, leaving Steve Chase alone at home; and just at the time of the Indian visit he was getting some wood in the canyon, a quarter of a mile from the house. The writer, from the opposite side of the river, saw the redskins break open the house and take possession. Knowing the boys were away from home, I ran to Bob Hill's house and told him to come with me to see what they were after. We crossed the river on the ice and were nearly through the willows on the east side, when we saw them leaving the shanty, taking with them everything of any value, skins worth perhaps a hundred dollars and all the clothing and provisions. It was a rich find for the rascals and they lost no time in making off with the booty. When we were within four hundred yards of the house the last Indian came out, his arms full of blankets and coats. Just as he was trying to mount his pony I fired at him. The ball must have whizzed too close for (125) comfort, for he dropped his load, jumped on his pony and soon overtook his party. When we reached the house we found it completely looted; not a thing they could carry off remained. About this time Steve Chase came with his wood. He was a picture of righteous indignation when he found what had occurred during his short absence. Late that night the rest of the boys returned home. They reported having seen Indians on Pebble Creek, three miles up the valley, where they had gone into camp. The Indians took a cow from Harry Colby's farm on their way and were having a royal feast.

     A meeting was held that night at the trapper's shanty, and it was decided that I should notify settlers on the south side 

of the river as far down as the Post settlement, which I accordingly did, making the trip from M. B. Goodenows to David Post's and return in about three hours. Unfortunately "Happy Jack'' was not at home, being in camp about thirty miles up the river, where his traps were set. No one slept in the frontier settlement that night for it was known that in the morning the Indians would be asked to return all the stolen goods and pay for the property taken and destroyed, and if they refused, then, large as the party was--about forty in number--it would mean a fight, even though we could muster only sixteen men.

      "The next morning, Jan. 19, 1874, was the coldest morning of that year, but in spite of this bright and early we were on the way to Pebble Creek, under the command of Charley White or as we knew him best, "Buckskin Charley." Just at dawn we were within three hundred yards of the big "tepee." Cautioning the men to keep silent, White entered the camp and demanded the return of the property. Here White no doubt made a mistake. He found the redskins breakfasting on the remnants of their last night's feast, and in no humor for compromise. Charley, who knew a little Sioux jargon, talked with the chief, who emerged from the tepee, took a cartridge from his belt, held it above his head, summoned his followers, and standing in their midst in the gray light of the morning uttered the Sioux war chief's battle cry, always terrible in its character. Many a time since I have heard that same peculiar chant, but never when it sounded more awe-inspiring. We now saw that it was impossible to avert trouble. White rejoined his little command and ordered them to seek shelter under the bank of the Loup river. The Indians opened fire as we reached the bank. (126) It was promptly returned, and for ten minutes the roar of musketry was like that in other days experienced at Rosebud Creek, the lonely bluffs of the Loup echoing the sharp crack of the rifles of white men and red engaged in mortal combat. It was soon discovered that owing to the extreme cold the shells were sticking in our guns, retarding our fire; and right here I must mention what I believe was the coolest act I ever saw a man do in time of extreme danger. Steve Chase, a little in advance of the rest of us,

finding the cartridge stuck in his gun, sat down and cooly opening his pocket knife, proceeded to pick the shell out while the bullets flew so thickly around him that to this day it is a mystery to what strange providence he owed his escape.

     "The Indians now divided, half of them crawling along to our rear, protected by a little ridge running parallel with the river. They saw we had the advantage of a perfect protection from their bullets. While we (127) were under the bank we could return their fire without exposing ourselves. It was to get better range at us, that they divided. The first we knew of their intentions we were greeted by a volley from the southeast. At this juncture Marion Littlefield arose to fire. He exposed his head to the enemy and just as he pressed the trigger of his needle gun there was an answering report and he fell dead on the bank of the river. The shot that killed him was almost the last of the fight. The Indians withdrew. What loss they had sustained we never knew, but that they lost several men was nearly certain. With heavy hearts we raised our dead comrade and carried him further down the river to a place of safety. Here we kindled a fire to warm our guns, expecting every moment to be again attacked by the now

invisible savages. Mr. McClimans' wagon now arrived, arrangements having been made that we should have some supplies sent out to us in the field. The body of Littlefield was carried back to the settlement in this wagon, accompanied by White and Haney. The rest of us went back to the battleground, but no Indians were to be seen. We dispatched two of their ponies left on the field terribly wounded. About nine o'clock we returned to McClimans' ranch. In a little while reinforcements came, but it was decided not to follow the Indians, as by this time they had a fair start.

     "Thus ended the Pebble Creek fight.  The next day a sad party passed down the valley, the friends of Marion Littlefield taking his body to his home near Sutton, Neb. He was a promising young man, only 21 years of age, and a favorite with all his friends. His death was a fearful blow to his parents and relatives and the sad affair cast a gloom over the whole settlement for a long time." 

     The summer of '74 was blessed with an abundance of rain and warm weather. Corn  grew rank and was surprisingly forward for the season of the year. The small grain too gave promise of exceptional yield. Farmers in the Valley were beginning to make preparations for harvesting and housing the crop which should at once place them in easy circumstances, when a calamity as complete as it was unexpected with one fell stroke destroyed all their calculations and for a time left them stunned and almost broken in spirit. It came in the shape of one of the plagues of ancient Egypt and it is doubtful whether the Nile-dwellers could have felt greater dismay at the sudden down pouring of this curse than did the Loup-dwellers when--the "grasshoppers" came.

     Nothing perhaps in the natural history of our state has excited more (128) general interest than the migrating locust. The particular species formerly such a pest in our part of the country is the Rocky Mountain locust (Melanoplus spretus), and is native to the dry plateau-lands of the Rocky Mountains, lying between latitude 43 degrees and 53 degrees north. Its permanent habitat, according to the United States Entomological Commission of 1877, covered an area of about 300,000 square miles. "The most favorite breeding places in this area were the river bottoms and the uplands or the grassy regions among the mountains." Whenever the weather conditions were favorable they hatched here in astonishingly large numbers. And the favoring conditions were exceptional dryness and warmth. In the early days two such dry seasons were sure to bring on a locust migration. During the last twenty years, however, the character of these early breeding grounds has been greatly changed. ''Settlement and agriculture have so restricted the permanent haunts in Montana, Idaho and Colorado that the danger from future incursions is very slight. Indeed the locust has practically been driven beyond the borders of the United States, and now breeds freely only in portions of British Columbia."

     After the insects hatch out in the spring it takes about seven weeks before they reach a mature state. They go through five moultings and after the last, acquire wings. Their appetite becomes voracious, and as they are most numerous in hot and dry seasons when vegetation is scant, it takes but a short time for this to become exhausted. It is now that they manifest their peculiar instincts. With a common impulse they take to wing, swarming in a southeasterly direction. They usually rise between 8 and 10 o'clock in the morning and continue their flight till the middle of the afternoon when they come down to feed. A fall in temperature or a head wind suddenly precipitates them to the ground in great numbers. They move not so much in sheets as in great columns from one to five thousand feet thick, resembling great fleecy clouds propelled onward by some strong but hidden agency. Moving, as we have stated, in a southeasterly direction, those that leave their breeding grounds in southern Montana and Colorado in spring will reach Nebraska in July, while those from northern Montana and Canada do not appear till August or September.

     An exceptionally destructive year was 1856, when the insects swarmed over Nebraska, Kansas, some parts of Missouri and Texas, into Iowa and Minnesota, and through Colorado and Utah. In 1870 and 1871 they again threatened the states west of the Mississippi, and in 1873 committed very serious depredations. "The most serious locust year known in the United States, however, was 1874 when enormous swarms invaded the settled portions of the Mississippi Valley west of the ninety-fourth meridian. Colorado, Nebraska, Kansas, Wyoming, Dakota, Minnesota, New Mexico, Indian Territory, and Texas were overrun by swarms from the northwest, mainly from Montana and British Columbia.

     "The loss in this region was estimated at $50,000,000 in the actual destruction of crops. In 1875 the young insects hatched in immense numbers over an area embracing portions of Nebraska, Kansas, and Missouri, (129) entailing destitution and suffering among a population of 750,000 people. In 1877 the young insects died in great numbers and those which acquired wings flew toward the northwest in the direction of Dakota and Montana, the region of permanent breeding grounds."

     The month of July was about half spent when the locusts reached the North Loup Valley. Corn was "laid by" and in tassle; the small grain was heading and full of promise. Then dawned the fatal day. By noon a strange haziness overspread the clear, blue sky, and the bright sunlight took on a sickly, yellowish tint. Had anyone taken the trouble to look at the sun through some proper medium he would have discovered the cause of this gradual transformation in the day. Myriads of insects were flitting by the disk of the sun. But people were not looking for trouble and so allowed the phenomenon to go unnoticed. In a short time, however, everyone had cause to become wide enough awake. The clouds of locusts suddenly began to settle over the earth. With a strange whistling sound of wings and myriad bodies they came on, pelting the appalled earth; bustling and tumbling they came, clinging to whatever they happened to strike, devouring every planted thing from Indian corn to garden truck.

     At first some of the settlers made vain attempts to scare the pests from their fields, but this was usually rewarded by having the clothes literally eaten from off their limbs. As time advanced the number of insects grew. In places branches of trees are said to have been bent almost to the ground under their living burden. The corn fields were speedily stripped of their leaves, and soon all but the toughest portions of the stalk were devoured. We hear of thrifty housewives attempting to save favorite flowerbeds by spreading over them bedquilts and carpets for protection, who to their chagrin found the locusts as eager to devour the spreads as they were the flowers.

     All, those were sad days in the settlement! Gone were now the hopes and day dreams of many a sturdy pathfinder! The last dollar had with many been spent in the hope of speedy returns from good crops. What now would be the future? How to span over the coming winter and eke out an existence till another crop could be gotten became serious questions. Had it not been for the abundance of game in the adjacent hills and the logging industries, and more particularly still, the building of Fort Hartsuff, which gave work at good wages to scores of men up and down the valley, many would perforce have left their farms and returned to the older settlements.

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