“That was the way he looked the day he licked Singin' Sandy the first time--and likewise the way he looked all the other times too, for the matter of that. But the first time was the day they hanged Tallow Dave, the hall breed, for killing the little Cartright girl. It was the first hanging we ever had in this country--the first legal hanging I mean--and from all over the county, up and down the river, and from away back in the oak barrens, the people came to see it. They came afoot and ahorseback, the men bringing their rifles and even old swords and old war hatchets with them, with the women and children riding on behind them. It made the biggest crowd that'd ever been here up to then. Away down by the willows stood the old white house that washed away in the rise of '54, where old Madame La Farge, the old French woman, used to gamble with the steamboat captains, and up where the Market Square is now, was the jail, which was built of logs; and in between stretched a row of houses and cabins, mainly of logs too, all facing the river. There was a road in front, running along the top of the bank, and in summer it was knee deep in dust, fit to choke a horse, and in winter it was just one slough of mud that caked and balled on your feet until it would pull your shoes off. I've seen teams mired down many a time there, right where the Richland House is now. But on this day the mud was no more than shoe-throat deep, which nobody minded; and the whole river front was just crawling with people and horses.