The Manhunt
On a cold December night in 1949, Bill Allman was killed. This series follows the ripple effects — from courtroom to clemency, from grief to guitars — and the music that rose from it all... music that outlasted everyone who played it. Read the full series introduction here.
The County on Edge
Jailer Moscoe Taylor had survived WWI trenches and the Spanish-American sun, only to be knocked senseless on a concrete floor by a desperate man with a lead pipe.
It was another criminal act. More violence, more proof that when Buddy felt cornered, his own survival always came first — no matter who he had to hurt to get away.
Sheriff Malbon arrived after the action, as a bulletin was going out to officers: “Green, five-eight, slim build, wearing blue dungarees and a white tee has escaped, thought to be unarmed.”
Somewhere beyond the county jail lights, Buddy moved through the shadows with only weeks left to live and hours of freedom he’d never planned on.
Sheriff Malbon called in every badge he could find — the entire Princess Anne police force, Virginia Beach police, State police, and the local game warden. He barked orders from the courthouse steps as deputies, constables, and unpaid volunteers turned their squad cars toward major escape routes to set up road blocks.
Bloodhounds from South Hampton County lead the search on foot. Princess Anne County didn’t have much — mostly farmland, swamp, and a scattering of service stations glowing in the night, but it did have plenty of men who knew every deer trail, every drainage ditch, every stretch of marsh where a desperate man might crouch until sunrise.
By midnight, the search party was coordinated as they combed back lots behind the jail, walked shoulder to shoulder through the brush, and sent squads to knock on doors. By dawn, men were tired but still searching
And through it all, Malbon kept his eyes on the trees. Every mile of marsh, every mile of swampy backroad, every front porch and kitchen window in Princess Anne County might be the place that Buddy blew through next.
While Moscoe lay bandaged at Norfolk General, the manhunt thundered through Princess Anne County’s back roads like a funeral hymn but with no hearse yet in sight.
Closing the Net
By the second night, the county was jumpy — kitchen lights flicked on at the sound of a stray dog, and men kept shotguns propped by the door just in case Buddy Green came looking for a ride out of town.
Bloodhounds continued to work, their baying drifting through pine stands like an old dirge for the damned. Deputies circled back to the same sheds and culverts they’d searched the night before, double-checking each one, convinced Buddy was nearby.
They finally found him hiding out in a tourist cabin.
For Sheriff Malbon, it was more than a prisoner found or a record kept clean. His family’s name was on bridges and back roads, signed to bank charters and farmland deeds — that kind of legacy depended on locks that held steady and men who did what they were told.
He had walked Buddy out to the courthouse rail every day, walked him back every night, as if routine alone would keep a man resigned to his sentence. But routine rusts like an old latch if you’re not careful. And when it breaks, it reminds you that any fortress is only as strong as the man who minds the keys.
After Buddy, the new Sheriff of Princess Anne County carried that crack in his fiefdom like a pebble in his boot — a constant irritant that made him check every latch and every head twice, and size up every prisoner for the soft bolt that might slip loose.
When the deputies dragged Buddy back to jail, the clang of the cell door felt final — but the story wasn’t over. What came next would divide neighbors, fill courthouse steps with whispers and leave Buddy’s fate hanging on a single, unexpected, decision.
About the Author
Cindi Brown is a Georgia-born writer, porch-sitter, and teller of truths — even the ones her mama once pinched her for saying out loud. She runs Porchlight Press from her 1895 house with creaking floorboards and an open door for stories with soul. When she’s not scribbling about Southern music, small towns, stray cats, places she loves, and the wild gospel that hums in red clay soil, you’ll find her out listening for the next thing worth saying.
