Bowers had been sixteen years in prison when I first met him. He had accepted his fate as an overwhelming misfortune, like blindness or paralysis, but never for a moment had he lost his self-respect, and he clung to his religion as the isle of refuge in his wrecked existence.
"Mailed in the armor of a pure intent" which the degradations of convict life could not penetrate, as the years passed he had achieved true serenity of spirit, and that no doubt contributed to his apparently unbroken health. His work was not on contract but in a shop where prison supplies were made, canes for the officers, etc. One day Bowers sent me a beautifully made cane, which I may be glad to use if I ever live to have rheumatism.
Bowers, like all life men, early laid his plans for a pardon and had a lawyer draw up a petition; but the difficulty in the case was that there wasn't a particle of evidence against the dead man excepting Bowers's own word. But Bowers's mind was set on establishing the truth of his statement regarding the character of the other man, and he saw only one way of doing this. Ray had said that his real name was Jones, and his photograph was in the rogues' gallery in St. Louis under the name of Jones. Now, if there was such a photograph in St. Louis Bowers determined to get it, and at last, after ten years, he obtained possession of the photograph, with the help of a lawyer, and again he looked upon the face of Ray, named Jones, with the record "horse-thief." The proven character of Jones did not alter the fact that he had been killed by Bowers; nor in that part of the country did it serve as a reason for release of Bowers; and the years went on the same as before.
Bowers's wife had not learned to write, but the baby, Carrie, grew into a little girl and went to school, and she wrote regularly to her father, who was very proud of her letters. When still a little girl she was taken into a neighbor's family. After a time the neighbor's wife died and Carrie not being equal to the work of the house her mother came to help out--so said Carrie's letters. And Bowers, who still cherished the home ties, was thankful that his wife and child were taken care of. Every night he prayed for them and always he hoped for the day when he could take them in his arms.