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