XVIII
DEPARTURE OF THE BRIGADE 1840
JULY brought the shining days of Oregon summer, beginning with twilight two hours after midnight and ending again in twilight. The clerks were fitting the brigades for their return to the interior. Indian goods were packed for transportation. The blacksmiths were preparing axes, horseshoes, bridle-bits, beaver traps. The newly gummed boats were lying at the shore. The freshet had reached its climax, and the governor came out to set up his graduated, painted pole to note the number of feet. Old Waskema, the squaw, watched from under her shaggy brows and said: "The flood is over. It will stop now. The White-Headed Eagle has set out his stick to stop the river's rise."
The Indians looked with awe upon the old crone. Sure enough, the river did cease to rise. "She talks with the dead at night. She understands the white man's magic." In their eyes old Waskema was wise as the chiefs at Fort Vancouver.
The voyageurs were dressing for the launch, devoting an unconscionable amount of time to the decoration of their legs. The fringed buckskin trousers were tied with beaded garters and knots of gaudy ribbon. From their silken sashes hung fire-pouches like ladies'
