True Crime Chronicles: The death of two McCurtain County campers in 1995 resulted in lethal injection 14 years later

Thirty years after a volley of shotgun blasts shattered the serene autumn stillness along Oklahoma's Glover River, the haunting echoes of a brutal ambush continue to resonate through the pine-shaded hollows of McCurtain County.

It was a chilling tale of rural robbery spiraling into a massacre, fueled by teenage betrayal and culminating in the relentless machinery of death row justice.

What began as an innocent fishing trip ended in charred remains and a fulfilled death sentence—a stark testament to how paradise in the backwoods of "Little Dixie" can swiftly transform into a predator's lair

.Roughly 600 yards upstream from the crime scene stood the "Tate bus"—a dilapidated school bus, stripped and repurposed into a bohemian hideout for a motley band of young drifters.

Led by Damon Tate, the group included 19-year-old Michael Paul DeLozier, a lean meth addict with a volatile temper and a criminal record that already bore the stain of killing a police dog; his 18-year-old cousin Glenney Dale "Bo" Madison, bold and fiercely loyal; and Bo's 17-year-old brother, Nathaniel Brandon Madison, a reluctant participant lost in a fog of drugs and undirected rebellion.

 Michael Paul DeLozier

The Tate bus was more than mere shelter; it was a breeding ground for reckless schemes, stoked by methamphetamine and the suffocating boredom of rural poverty.

he nightmare ignited from a spark of resentment—perhaps rumors of a slight by Morgan and Bullard earlier that day, or simply greed eyeing vulnerable targets.

The assault erupted with chilling precision. DeLozier kicked open the camper door, unleashing a thunderous shotgun blast toward the rear, shattering the darkness and wounding Bullard in the ensuing chaos. Bo followed with rifle shots into the front grille of Morgan's pickup, while Nathaniel—his heart racing, later confessing to prosecutors his unwillingness for bloodshed—shouted for the men to "come on out, nothing's gonna happen to you."

Morgan, trembling with fear, emerged first. DeLozier showed no mercy, firing a point-blank shotgun blast that tore through his chest. As Morgan fell, DeLozier seized Bo's rifle and fired into his face to ensure his end. Bullard, scrambling from the back, met a similar fate—a .22 round to the head from Bo, delivered execution-style.

The Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation (OSBI) quickly descended on the remote scene, sifting through ashes for bullets and shell casings as the river flowed on indifferently.

Tips from the Tate bus crew—whispers of DeLozier's boasts and the Madisons' nervous behavior—broke the case wide open. Nathaniel, facing the weight of his own involvement, turned state's evidence first.

In a plea deal, he admitted guilt to two counts of conspiracy to commit murder, receiving a split sentence of two years in prison plus 10 years suspended in exchange for testimony that would condemn his brother and cousin. Released in 2000, Nathaniel faded into obscurity, his betrayal becoming a local legend of survival over family ties.

DeLozier, the undisputed ringleader, faced his jury in May 1996. Nathaniel's testimony served as the prosecution's decisive blow, painting a vivid picture of the shotgun's roar, the flames engulfing the camper, and DeLozier's meth-driven fury.

Ballistics linked the weapons to the crime, while DeLozier's history of animal cruelty branded him a "continuing threat"—a point prosecutors drove home relentlessly. After two hours of deliberation on guilt and five on sentencing, the jury delivered two death verdicts, citing the crime's heinous nature, the threat to multiple victims, and DeLozier's violent tendencies.

The Oklahoma Court of Criminal Appeals upheld the convictions in 1998, dismissing claims of insufficient evidence and flawed jury instructions.

The 10th Circuit Court of Appeals, in a 2008 ruling, found no reversible error, sealing DeLozier's fate.

On July 9, 2009, at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester, the 32-year-old entered the death chamber. His last meal—a $15 T-bone steak, french fries, and a large salad—reflected the state's modest limit on condemned indulgences.

Offering no final words, a pre-execution statement later surfaced: a reluctant admission of guilt and an apology to the Setzer and Bullard families. At 6:10 p.m., the lethal injection flowed through his veins, concluding a life that had claimed two others.