As the trial of James “Jim” Wasson wound deeper into the sweltering days of July 1885, Judge Isaac Parker’s second-floor courtroom stood like a crucible in the frontier heat, boiling with public curiosity, whispered vengeance, and the slow-burning weight of justice. Each hour brought new testimony, each voice another stitch in the tightening noose of implication. From the earliest declarations of John Merriman and his wife Clara, to the solemn observations of Elizabeth Brooks, Stephen Bussell, and the Birdsong brothers, the government’s case had methodically taken shape. The picture forming was one not of sudden fury or accidental death, but of premeditated murder, plotted in drink and executed in dusk.
Yet even with seven witnesses already heard, the prosecution had not yet played its final cards. The courtroom—thick with the scent of sweat, oiled wood, and the unrelenting tension of a capital trial—prepared for the last two government witnesses. These men would not speak as hearsay observers or troubled neighbors. They came with concrete knowledge of escape, of apprehension, and of the accused’s ownmovementsafter the fatal shots rang out.
First would be Alex Juzan— amanwhoseveryname carried layered implications. The Juzan family was not only linked by blood to Almarine Watkins, the other murdered man in this saga, but by tangled ties of marriage and history to the land, to Lucy Juzan Watkins, and to the wounds that had not healed since the fall of 1881. Juzan’s testimony would venture into the gray fog of motive, relationship, and suspicion—territory both personal and perilous.
Next came George O. Reeves, a figure somewhat apart from the intimate circle of Woodville but nonetheless integral to the prosecution’s timeline. His testimony was expected to help trace Wasson’s evasive trail—the months that followed the murder, the whispers of sightings, the return to Chickasaw country, and the final capture that brought him to Parker’s bar of justice.
As the two men prepared to speak, the gallery remained crowded, filled with citizens of Woodville and Fort Smith, attorneys from far corners of the district, and most haunting of all, Lucy Juzan Watkins. Still seated in the front row, still dressed in mourning, her presence cast an almost mythic air overtheproceedings.Shehad watched the first half of this trial unfold with unflinching attention. Now, as the final witnessesforthegovernment prepared to take the stand, her eyes were locked forward, fixed on the platform where her husband’s presumed killer sat under guard.
In this final chapter of the prosecution’s case, it would no longer be enough to rely on the memories of neighbors or the cries of the wounded. It was time for clarity, for conviction, and for closure. The jury, the judge, and the people of two territories would soon have to weigh it all—every word, every bullet, every absence—and determine whether James Wasson would walk free or swing from the gallows in the courtyard below.
These final voices for the government would not simply finish a narrative. They would press its truth into the oak benches of Judge Parker’s court, and perhaps, into the grave itself.
In the quiet tension of Judge Isaac Parker’s federal courtroom, the government’s eighth witness, Alex Juzan, took the stand: a Chickasaw man with blood ties to both the land and the slain. His testimony, delivered in a halting yet clear voice, shed light on the hours immediately following the murder of Henry Martin. This act would lead to the lengthy hunt for James Wasson and John McLaughlin.
Juzan began by identifying his residence in the Chickasaw Nation and his proximity to the scenes of the crime: approximately three-quarters of a mile from Mrs. Brooks’s house and just over half a mile from the place where Martin had been ambushed and shot to death.
He testified that on the day of the murder, he had beenawayfromhome,pursuing a group of horses he had recently acquired that had broken loose. He returned home between sundown and dark, and it was then that he encountered Wasson and McLaughlin.
“I met them in the lane,” Juzan said. “McLaughlin called me over. He stepped down from his horse by the fence corner and said, ‘We have got into trouble.’ He was crying. Said they had killed Henry Martin.”
The weight of those words hung in the courtroom as Juzan described McLaughlin’s emotionalstate—drunk, tearful, and full of regret. He was particularly disturbed, Juzan recalled, because of his sisters and the shame that the killing would bring upon them. Juzan pressed for details, asking if Martin might still be alive, only to hear Wasson’s cold admission: “Yes, I know he is dead—I went back and shot him in the head.”
Juzannotedthatbothmen were armed and that they had arrived on horseback. McLaughlin rode his horse, while Wasson was astride a young pony belonging to a man named Richardson. After some time at the Juzan home, Richardson arrived and retrieved his pony. Juzan, perhaps out of fear or pity, lent the fugitives two of his horses to aid their flight.
When asked if either man expressed concern about being apprehended, Juzan recalled Wasson stating coolly that it would be difficult for any lawman to arrest them. “Itwouldtaketenmen,”Wasson allegedly said.
The prosecution pushed for more details about that night and the days that followed. Juzan said he did not go to the scene that evening, but visited the Brooks’ house the following morning, where he saw Martin’s lifeless body, already prepared for burial. He had heard that federal marshals were in the vicinity, but insisted he didn’t speak of the murder to anyone for at least six months, perhaps longer.
“Why didn’t you report it sooner?” the prosecutor asked. “I just didn’t feel like going,” Juzan replied, a statement that drew audible murmurs from the gallery.
Juzan admitted he had himself once been charged with murder some seven years prior, a fact the defense leapt upon in cross-examination. But his calm recitation of the fugitives’ arrival, their drunken sorrow, and their damning confession stood as a devastating piece of evidence.
Wasson, sitting at the defense table, showed no outward emotion as Juzan recounted how he lent them the horses and never saw them again for nearly eighteen months. The court took note of Juzan’s relation to Almarine Watkins, slain later by Wasson during a separate altercation. Watkins was Juzan’s brother-in-law, further deepening the web of grief around the defendant.
In closing, Juzan stated plainly: “Wasson was quiet that night. Calm. But McLaughlin—hecried.”Such words, simple as they were, echoed through the chamber like a hammer on stone. In the story Juzan told, the shadow of guilt did not creep—it galloped into the night on borrowed horses, leaving behind the stench of blood, smoke, and betrayal.
In the ever-unfolding drama of the United States vs. James Wasson, one of the more compelling testimonies presented by the government came from the ninth witness, a man named George O. Reeves, a resident of the Chickasaw Nation, living approximately twelve to fifteen miles west of Colbert Station.
Mr. Reeves was familiar with the defendant, having known James Wasson for over five years. What led Reeves to the courtroom, however, was a significant conversation he had with Wasson more than a year before the trial began — a conversation filled with remorse, faith, and revelation.
According to Reeves, he encountered Wasson at Mr. McKellam’s house on the Woods farm, while a religious revivalwasunderwaynearby at a place known to some as Walnut Grove and to others as Woodville.
Reeves recounted that the men had been discussing the merits of better living. When he urged Wasson that he should strive to do better, the accused reportedly replied, 'There is no chance for me.'
Reeves, drawing on the message of the revival, assured him that no sin was so dire that forgiveness could not be granted. But Wasson’s answer was chilling: he confessed that he had killed Henry Martin, describing the event with grim specificity: he claimed to have shot Martin through the head and watched brains and blood fall out.
On cross-examination, defense counsel sought to undermine Reeves' credibility and the weight of his account. Reeves admitted that Wasson was drinking during their encounter, but rejected the notion that Wasson was drunk to the point of incoherence. When questioned whetherWassonapproached a preacher that evening with a pistol in one hand and his boots in the other, Reeves claimed ignorance, noting only that Wasson had gone forward and offered his hand to the preacher during the invitation call.
The defense pressed hard, suggesting that perhaps Reeves himself was manipulated into being a witness — a claim he flatly denied. Reeves clarified that he volunteered his statement while speaking withDr.Burges,whoclaimed to be a friend of the accused. Despite the defense’s assertion that the statement might have been coaxed or made while Wasson was in a drunken state, Reeves held firm: Wasson knew what he was saying.
Reeves also offered some background about himself. Born in Mississippi, he lived in North Carolina for a time, relocating with his family shortly after the war. Eventually, he settled in the Chickasaw Nation with the proper permit and resided on the Woods farm.
In re-direct examination, the prosecution sought to reaffirm the credibility of Reeves' account. They emphasized that although Wasson had been drinking, he retained full command of his faculties when he made his confession. Reeves himself claimed to be a church member and had previously belonged to the Methodist church in North Carolina.
In a brief re-cross examination, the defense attempted a more personal angle,askingwhetherReeves had ever given his hand to a preacher during the revival. With a faint trace of irony, Reeves replied no — though he had been on the mourners' bench two or three times, it hadn’t 'done much good.'
Though brief, Reeves’ testimony struck a powerful chord. His matter-of-fact delivery, personal connection to the revival meeting, and unwavering recollection of Wasson's confession painted a haunting portrait of the accused — not only as a man on the run from justice, but as one already haunted by guilt.
As the prosecution delivered its final strokes upon the canvas of accusation, the witness stand once more welcomed a familiar figure— Alex Juzan, a central character whose earlier testimony had already cast long shadows over the defense. Recalled by government counsel Clayton in a strategic move, Juzan’s brief return was precise yet impactful.
With the gravity of silence settling over the federal courtroom in Fort Smith, the question was put plainly: Q: “What direction did these men come from when they came to your house that night?”
A: “Came from the south.” This small detail, seemingly incidental, bolstered the timeline already established by several witnesses— that James Wasson and John McLaughlin had come directly from the scene of Henry Martin’s murder to Juzan’shomeunderthecover of dusk. The route from the south, in proximity to the Brooks and Birdsong properties, added another stone to the path of flight traced by the prosecution.
But it was Clayton’s second question that caught the room like a sudden wind through dry leaves.
Q: “Mr. Barnes asked you if you had been up here for murder years ago.”
A: “Yes, sir.” Gasps were stifled and pens scratched faster as the courtroom digested the candor of this revelation. Juzan, known in the territory as a horseman and family man— brother-in-law to both Henry Martin and later Almarine Watkins—had, by his admission, once stood where James Wasson now sat, accused in a capital case.
The prosecutor pressed: Q: “Who was arrested with you?”
A: “Five of us. Almarine Watkins, George Wallins and…” (the record breaks, leaving the list incomplete).
The ripple effect was instantaneous. Theverynames that hovered around the tale of James Wasson—Watkins, Wallins,andnowJuzanwere all entangled in previous violence. It spoke to a history steeped in retribution and clan loyalty, an undercurrent the jury could not ignore.
With this final testimony, the government rested its case. The room exhaled. The long procession of Chickasaw farmers, local settlers, and itinerant witnesses who’d taken the stand painted a tapestry of blood, smoke, and slow-coming law. The murder of Henry Martin, no longer a mere entry in court documents, had come to life in anguished voices, flickers of memory, and sobering fact.
The defense now prepared its rebuttal—a moment heavy with expectation. For if thegovernmentbuiltastrong frame with the recollections of the Birdsong brothers, Alex Juzan, and others, the defense must now attempt to tear it down, thread by thread.
As the court adjourned for the evening, the first day of James Wasson’s trial was concluded. But one thing remained clear: the noose of Judge Parker’s court had tightened. Next, it would be the accused’s turn to speak— or to let silence carry the weight of his fate.
On day two of the trial, under the stern gaze of Judge Isaac Parker, the so-called “Hanging Judge” of the Western District, the saga of Jim Wasson’s trial pressedforwardwithincreasing gravity. Among the most anticipated witnesses for the defense that day was a Chickasaw Nation resident named John McAlister, who provided jurors a winding yet intimate portrait of the hours surrounding the murder of Henry Martin.
McAlister, a settler who lived near the mouth of the Washita River in the Chickasaw Nation, took the stand with the calm familiarity of a man who had lived long with the shadows of this crime. He began by confirming he had known Martin for approximately three years and had seen him alive on the very day he died—at Durham’s store in Woodville.
He testified that he was among those gathered that day to shoot at a mark for sport. Alongside McAlister stood Jim Wasson, John McLaughlin,JoeRichardson, and Robert Bell. McAlister said nothing seemed amiss. Therewasdrinking,yes—but there was also laughter. A shared jug and a carefree camaraderie.
According to McAlister, Wasson left the gathering momentarily to retrieve cartridges from another nearby store. He stated that Wasson may have expended all his ammunition that afternoon, thoughhecouldn’tsweartoit. WassonandMcLaughlinhad taken off together, with Wasson riding Joe Richardson’s horse, McLaughlin astride his own.
Later that evening, both men appeared at McAlister’s residence—coming from the direction of Darling’s store— just after dusk. Wasson entered briefly, took a meal, and then rode away with McLaughlin. McAlister saw nothing suspicious in their behavior. They were friendly with Martin earlier in the day, he said, and he saw no signs of hostility.
Perhaps the most stirring moment of McAlister’s testimony involved a secondhand confession recounted by Oscar Reeves. Reeves had told McAlister of an encounter with Wasson some months earlier. At a religious meeting near Walnut Grove, Wasson, drunk and deeply unsettled, had approached the preacher with one hand extended in peace and the other gripping a pistol. He was barefoot, reeling, and rambling.
Reeves claimed Wasson had asked him: “If a man could get to heaven after having killed another man?” When Reeves pressed him, Wasson said, “You know I am accused of killing Henry Martin—and if so, what can I do?” Reeves, as McAlister relayed it, dismissed Wasson’s rambling on account of his drunken state.
During the cross-examination, prosecutors dug deep into McAlister’s timeline and motives.Theyaskedwhether he had truly seen everyone at the store, whether Martin left with Merriman, and whether McAlister knew of any shooting after Martin had departed.
McAlister held steady. He insisted he saw no tension that day and reiterated that he went home to his chores, which included cotton-picking for Wasson. He said McLaughlin later invited him to spend the night, which he accepted. He slept, he thought, alongside Bud Durham, not Wasson.
He recalled hearing gunshots about half an hour after WassonandMcLaughlinhad left—five or six in all. One final shot, he noted, rang out several moments after the others. The sound came from the direction of Mrs. Brooks’ farm, where Martin had been staying.
The defense sought to show that this timeline made it unlikely that Wasson could have committed the murder, cleaned himself up, returned to McAlister’s house, and resumed a normal evening all within such a narrow window. Furthermore, the defensearguedthatWasson’s behavior that night—eating, fiddling, even weeping while drunk—did not match the profile of a man who had just killed in cold blood.
McAlister testified that Wasson and McLaughlin departed together the following day. He heard nothing from them for over a year. Rumors placed them in the Texas Panhandle, and their trail ran cold until their eventual arrest.
He also recalled speaking toWassonthenextday.When McAlister told him people suspected him of the crime, Wasson dismissed it as “too thin.” McAlister insisted he never heard a direct confession from the man.
Under redirect, McAlister reiterated that both men were drinking heavily the day of the murder. He said he saw them later with their horses and a fox they had killed—seemingly engaged in an ordinary rural routine, not the aftermath of a heinous act.
Re-cross focused on inconsistencies in his memory. He admitted he could not recall whether certain horses were shod or not and could not confirm seeing Wasson’s pistol later that day. However, he maintainedthatbothWasson and McLaughlin had pistols earlier that afternoon and left for the store to get more cartridges shortly before the shooting was heard.
John McAlister’s testimony was a study in rural loyalties, remembered timelines, andtheambiguitythatclouds every crime of passion. He did not absolve Jim Wasson, but neither did he condemn him. His words drew a portrait not of a cold-blooded murderer, but of a man enmeshed in the whisky-soaked social tangle of Indian Territory—a man with questions for the preacher and fear in his soul.
Whether the jury saw in his testimony enough doubt to stay the gallows would remain to be seen. But McAlister, unassuming and plainspoken, left behind the impression of a man trying to tell the truth as he saw it. In Judge Parker’s court, that alone might not be enough. But it still carried the weight of conscience.
As this pivotal chapter in the trial of James Wasson draws to a close, three crucial voices have stepped into the light—each casting a sharper silhouette around the grim events of that November evening in the Chickasaw Nation. Alex Juzan, a man bound to the drama by blood, by proximity, and by past suspicions, offered testimony that deepened the sense of entanglement between the families and the crime. George O. Reeves, with quiet authority, traced the footsteps of the accused in the aftermath, affirming that flight followed the fatal deed. And with the prosecution’s case nearing its end, the defense began its counterassault with John McAlister, whose testimony sought to unmoor the timeline and seed doubt in the minds of the jurors.
Eachaccountaddedweight to a courtroom already thick with consequences. Though the gallows stood quiet, their shadow lengthened.
But the heart of the defense case is yet to come.
Next week, the series will continuewithtestimonyfrom the defendant’s brothers, Charles Wasson and Met Wasson, followed by the most anticipated witness of all: the accused, James Wasson, taking the stand in his own defense. When his testimony concludes, the courtroom will brace for the final blows. The government will present a rebuttal from U.S. Deputy Marshal John G. Farr, while the defense will close its case with Arnold Conyers.
In these final voices, the fate of a man—and perhaps the memory of two murdered souls—will hinge on what the jury chooses to believe.