I can't find Gabe Fowler in any census record after 1860. However, I did find this sad account, and, with apologies to the webmaster for getting a bit off subject, I couldn't resist sharing this story:

Date: Saturday, June 20, 1885 Paper: Texas Siftings (Austin, Texas) Volume: 5 Issue: 7 Page: 4

HOW GABE FOWLER’S HEART WAS HARDENED.
Mr. Gabe Fowler was one of the kindest hearted and most sympathetic men in Crosby County, Texas. He sympathized with all who needed sympathy and small loans, and as the world is full of needy persons, Mr. Gabe Fowler did a good business in his line.
But by slow and painful degrees, contact with a harsh and unresponsive world benumbed his generous sympathies, and he became sour and morose.
He is that way now.
But we anticipate.
Before his conversion, Mr. Gabe Fowler read one day a graphic account of the sufferings of the Jews at the destruction of Jerusalem, and he felt so keenly for them, that he went out and purchased, from Isaac Solomons, a descendant of the sufferers, a suit of clothes that he did not need. When, however, he found that the Israelite had taken undue advantage of his sympathy, had charged him three prices and that the clothes were too fragile for everyday use, the gloomiest kind of a gloom of a great woe shadowed his sympathetic soul.
Mr. Gabe Fowler was also the victim of grasshopper sufferers from the Northwest, of men who had been burned out in the forest fires of Michigan, of persons whose little all had been swept away by the Ohio flood, and of innumerable other sharpers.
He nearly went out of the sympathetic business on one occasion, when he gave a quarter to a tramp and was knocked down by the supposed tramp, who turned out to be an Arkansas editor on a free press excursion.
When the incident we are about to relate occurred, it knocked all the milk of human kindness in Mr. Gabe Fowler’s breast into the sourest kind of clabber, and he left Crosby County. The immediate cause of Mr. Fowler’s hegira was a severe shock to his generous sympathy, imparted by old man Ripadam, a wealthy but close fisted farmer, who resided in the adjoining county.
At the period to which we refer, Mr. Gabe Fowler was county clerk of Crosby County. One morning while busily engaged in recording a deed, old man Ripadam entered the office. It could easily be seen that Colonel Ripadam was in great trouble. The sorrow and despair of a whole burnt district seemed to have settled down on his countenance.
Mr. Gabe Fowler was touched, and his old sympathetic ace of hearts bled as it had never bled before.
“Can I in any way help you in your trouble?” he said.
“Be you the County Clerk?”
“I be.”
“Well, sir, two weeks ago,” said old man Ripadam, “my daughter B’linda ‘loped with a rich but gaudy young man named Sturtevant B. Dod. I heard that they were settled down in this county, but I can’t find no record of their marriage, and if I can’t find it – O, no my cheild, me cheild, ha villian,” and the old man gritted his teeth and broke down in one great consecutive sob.
The sympathetic Mr. Gabe Fowler wiped his eye-glasses, and in a break-it-to-him gently voice, said:-
“I regret to say, Colonel Ripadam, that your fears are but too well founded. Your daughter and her lover went away after being refused a license to marry, as Belinda was under age, and they are now living as man and wife.”
The broken hearted old man gave one convulsive sob, that knocked a cockroach off its perch on the windowsill, and gasped in a hoarse street-peddler tone: “Where are they?” as he nervously fingered his revolver.
“Why, I hope you will not do anything rash Colonel. They are living in fine style over on Rinker’s Creek in a big house, large, airy and comfortable.”
The old man with an air of determination arose to his feet.
“Got a fine house, have they?”
“Yes.”
“Large, roomy and comfortable?”
“O, yes.”
“Well, that jist strikes me. Now I’m fixed. You have took a load offen my mind, and offen my old wife’s mind, for she’s packed up ready to go and live with ‘em. An’ I’ve been nosein’ around to find them. Was afeered they’d skipped the country. We’ll go an’ settle down with ‘em an’ won’t cost us a cent, for Sturtevant has the scads. It’ll be just pie for us. Big house, roomy an’ comfortable, eh?”
The old man was gone. It is said that the old hermit who lives in the cave at the foot of Mount Bonnie, and who is so unsympathetically cold to strangers is Mr. Gabe Fowler.