"All of a sudden I knew then that for some time I'd been feeling that Ray wasn't quite square. There had been some little things—of course I said I wouldn't go in with him; and I don't know what else I said for I was pretty mad to find out what kind of a man he was and how he had fooled me. Perhaps I threatened to tell the police; anyway Ray said he would kill me before I had a chance to give him away if I didn't go into the deal with him, for then I wouldn't dare 'peach.' Still I refused.
"And then"—here a look of absolute terror came into Bowers's eyes—"then he suddenly struck me a terrible blow and I knew I was in a fight for my life. He fought like the desperate man that he was. I managed to reach down and pick up a stick and struck out: I never thought of killing the man; it was just a blind fight to defend myself.
"But he let go and fell. When he did not move I bent over him and felt for his heart. I could not find it beating; but I could not believe he was dead. I waited for some sign of life but there was none. I was horror-struck and dazed; but I knew I could not leave him in the road where he had fallen, so I dragged him a little way into the woods. There I left him.
"I hurried back home to tell my wife what had happened; but when I opened the door my wife was sitting beside the cradle where the baby was. Cynthy was tired and sleepy with her day's work, and everything seemed so natural and peaceful I just couldn't tell her, and I couldn't think, or anything. So I told her she'd better go to bed while I went across the road to speak to her father.
"It wasn't more than nine o'clock then, and I found her father sitting alone smoking his pipe. He began to talk about his farm work. He didn't notice anything queer about me and I was so dazed-like that it all began to seem unreal to me. I tried once or twice to break into his talk and tell him, but I couldn't put the horror into words—I couldn't.
"Perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference if I had told him; anyway I didn't. When the body was found next morning of course they came right to our house with the story, for Ray had told folks that he was a relation of mine. I told just what had happened but it didn't count for anything—I was tried for murder and not given a chance to make any statement. Because I was well thought of by my neighbors they didn't give me the rope, but sent me here for life."
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.