DEATH NEVER TAKES A HOLIDAY

JUNE, 1937

The blankets and lay still as a mouse. Pretty soft!

The two boys from the bridge crew returned, started the truck and were soon bumping the miles away in the darkness. Jenks was almost asleep when he heard the driver say: "Wonder how our stiff is getting along?"

Jenks was petrified; so they had seen him crawl in after all! Well, he might as well thank them, as they were evidently reconciled to his presence. He sat up, with the blankets still around him and started to acknowledge the obligation: "Mighty white of you guys to let"

He was utterly unprepared for what happened next. Two shrieks rent the night air, two bodies catapulted from the truck to the ground and two streaks disappeared up the road in the direction from which they had come.

Jenks scratched his head in bewilderment. "Say, I'll bet those guys stole this truck. Why'd they run like that if they were honest men?"

He climbed out and onto the seat of the vehicle. The engine was running and the lights illuminated the road ahead. He pondered over the problem and thoughts of a possible reward for the return of the truck were agreeably entertained. A card in front of his eyes attracted his attention"Wheeler's M-o-r-t-u-a-r-y" he made out. "Must be some place they sell mortar" he decided, whereupon he let in the clutch and proceeded on his way.

As the lights of Phoenix appeared in the distance another reflection assailed Jenks, "Suppose they think I stole this truck; how'm I going to prove I did'nt?" Not so good. Maybe it would be better not to try for a reward and just get rid of the thing the best way he could.

Which he proceeded to do and at this point the long arm of coincidence

Arizona Highways ... $1.00 Per Year

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS

enters the story; for on a quiet, dimly lighted street, just around the corner from Wheeler's Mortuary, the truck was parked and Jenks went whistling merrily on his way.

The incident has remained to this day clouded with mystery for all concerned. Jenks would be as greatly surprised as anyone if he knew the part he played in the story.

Prescott the Summer Capital of Arizona

(Continued From Page 11) Well stocked streams and lakes that are easily accessible from lodges and guest ranches.

Lazy days in the invigorating mountain air, polo, horse-back rides, pack trips into the virgin country, rodeos, barbecue and chuck wagon feeds combine to make Prescott sojourn an occasion never to be forgotten.

In 1933 Prescott citizens sought and secured approval of the excavation of Tuzigoot as the first archaeological re-

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search project in the United States to be done by relief workers. The result has been the Smoki museum, an anthropological institution without parallel as to plan of construction. Here are combined and faithfully reproduced the best of Zuni and Hopi tradition. Here are housed many of the priceless ceramics and other artifacts from the Tuzigoot, King and Fitzmaurice ruins, and here the Smoki clan works for the perpetuation of a fast-dying culture.

Yavapai county is rich in colorful history which was preceded by nameless yesterdays, from which archaeologists seek to tear the veil of mystery. Time was when the Verde Valley was the home of an abounding aboriginal civilizationdecaying walls listen in vain for the return of their builders and Pueblo structures, towering two and three stories high upon windswept hills, have been lashed by the fury of the centuries. Bits of prehistoric masonry and Indian artifacts are all that remain for the information of the white man.

DEATH TAKES NO HOLIDAY

By ELMA ROBERTS WILSON Death never takes a holiday: He lurks on every street: He crouches down each alley-way His menace to repeat.

At every railroad crossing He waits with patient grin; Some fool will try to beat the train And Death's the one who'll win.

Death stalks the little children. As they run out from school And snatches them when drivers Disobey the "Drive Slow" rule.

He tips the liquor bottle; He drops the drowsy eye; Chortles when drivers "hit 'er up" For soon some one will die.

The long, straight, open stretches Are where his harvest's best (They are such tempting places To put speed to the test.) Death loves a dirty windshield, A sudden, careless swerve; He grows extremely chummy When you park upon a curve.

He loves the glaring headlights, Six fools in one coupe, "Sixty" at the cross-roads And trailers wide that sway.

He trots behind the casings, Slides over worn brake bands; When careless drivers turn their heads He pounces on their hands.

Then rakes his gory winnings From ditch, or pole, or tree And chalks against pure carelessness Another tragedy.

Yet there's a way to foil him, And this the only way: Obey the rules; be cautious When driving, night or day.