Masina stands under the manic affliction of the sun, its adolescent rays already sharp enough to rake nearly to the bone.<br/><br/>Perspiration peeks from stunned pores.  The rolling copper of her muscles is soon glowing, burnished.  Under its rich, slick surface, her muscles strain in preparation to loose the anchor.  The Bachoi waits like a sullen oxen, butting its brow against the mooring posts.<br/><br/>The sole mercy is the complete lack of insects.  Masina knows well that the Red River's shores should be heaving with black masses of biting bugs.  Instead, the air is as clean as if it were washed.<br/><br/>It lends an eerie quietude to the scene: The chalk slash of the landscape with the abrupt, toothy line of high hills miles distant.  The hard, warping heat cloaking a teeming orchard nearby.  And the solitary outpost, like a decapitated signpost, marking the center of all silence.