Uncle John Ware, whom all old timers know, is in town. He is living in the Bradshaw and comes to the city so infrequently that his visits are noted. They would be noted anyhow by reason of his tall and commanding figure and his hearty laugh which agitates the atmosphere and shakes the windows within a dozen blocks. Many years ago when the town was young he was a prosperous blacksmith and owned all that part of it lying on both sides of South Center Street. From out the varied and exciting incidents of his long life one stands preeminent and was contributory to his white hair which surmounts his tall form like a light of Pharis. One morning he awoke from a night's sound sleep in an adobe building now occupied by the Phoenix Oil Company. The first object upon which his eyes rested was a stark corpse on the floor besdie him. He turned from it in fear only to see another dead body on the other side. He was now awake and filled with a curiosity concerning the cause of such unusual mortality. He ran into the street half dressed and learned that his guests were victims of brawls in different saloons and had died coicidentally. Those were days before ice and embalmers and a proper respect for the dead.
The ARIZONA REPUBLICAN August 28, 1894