We went into camp the second night near Birch Coolie, and sixteen miles distant from Fort Ridgely, about 5 p. m., well tired out with our day’s march. Birch Coolie is a deep gorge running north and south in Redwood county, Minnesota. What was then a bleak prairie is now a beautiful farming community, and Birch Coolie a thriving village.
From information gathered by the scouts we felt comparatively safe.
“Chickens for Supper.”
Old Joe said: “Boys, go to sleep now and rest; you are as safe as you would be in your mother’s house; there is not an Indian within fifty miles of you.” At that very moment five hundred Indians were in the immediate vicinity watching us and impatient for the ball to open, as they intended it should at the proper time, which, with the Indian, is about four o’clock in the morning.
After our supper on chicken stew, song-singing and story-telling, we turned in, well tired out and in a condition to enjoy a good night’s sleep and dreams of home.
The night was warm, the sky clear, with the stars shining brightly, and a full moon in all her glory. It was a beautiful night—too beautiful to witness the scene that was so soon to follow. The guard had been stationed and cautioned to be on the alert for strange sounds; “tattoo,” “roll-call,” “taps,” sounded, and the little camp was silent. The low hum of voices became less and less as slumber came to the weary soldiers, and all that could be heard was the occasional challenge of the guard: “Halt! who comes there!” as he was being approached by the officer of the guard.
Soon the soldiers slept, little dreaming that the lurking enemy and death were so near. The awakening to some was in eternity.