The Legend of Buford Pusser

He was the sheriff with a big stick and an even bigger legend. Buford Pusser fought crime on the Tennessee-Mississippi border with his fists, a badge, and a whole lot of vengeance. His story inspired Walking Tall, a string of sequels, ballads, and generations of folk-hero worship. 

But behind the headlines, beneath the scars, there’s a different story. 

In this episode of the Curator135 Podcast, we dive deep into the life, myth, and legacy of Buford Pusser—from his early days as a wrestler, to bloody shootouts with the State Line Mob, to the tragic death of his wife, Pauline. And for the first time, we’ll explore the shocking new investigation that may rewrite everything we thought we knew about who Buford really was. 

Because sometimes, legends aren’t broken—they were built that way. 

Transcript

Hey there.

Let me ask you something.

What do we do with people who’ve done both incredible and awful things?

I mean, think about it—Dr. Seuss, beloved children’s author, also drew racist propaganda in his early years.

Bill Cosby—once “America’s Dad”—now synonymous with betrayal and abuse.

OJ Simpson dazzled on the football field. Then a courtroom made us see him a very different way.

Henry Ford helped shape the modern world… and pushed antisemitic conspiracies while doing it.

Even John Lennon, who sang about peace and love, admitted to violence in his private life.

So where does that leave us?

Can we still admire the good?

Separate the art from the artist?

The legacy from the flaws?

Or do we toss it all aside once the cracks begin to show?

It’s not an easy question.

Especially when the person we’re talking about wore a badge.

Especially when they were called a hero.

Today, we’re talking about Buford Pusser.

The towering Tennessee sheriff who took on crime with a club in one hand and revenge in the other.

The man who inspired Walking Tall.

The man whose story became legend.

But behind the legend, there’s another story.

One that’s darker.

More complicated.

And for a long time—left untold.

This episode isn’t about tearing down a hero for the sake of drama.

It’s about asking the hard question:

What if the man we’ve been cheering for… is the same man who caused the tragedy?

Let’s walk through it.

Welcome to the Curator135 podcast. My name is Nathan Olli and this is episode 93, The Legend of Buford Pusser.

Before Buford Pusser ever picked up a badge, McNairy County, Tennessee, had a reputation—and not a good one.

Nestled in the southwestern corner of the state, bordering Mississippi, the county was rural, conservative, and hard-working. But in the 1950s and ‘60s, this quiet region held a dark secret. The Tennessee-Mississippi state line wasn’t just a boundary—it was a dividing line between law and lawlessness. And the area around it was becoming a haven for gambling, moonshine, prostitution, and organized crime.

Highway 45 ran right through the heart of this trouble, linking the towns of Selmer, TN, and Corinth, MS. Dotting the roadside were motels, nightclubs, honky-tonks, and roadhouses—many with flashing neon signs and even flashier reputations. Together, they were called the State Line Strip.

It was here that vices flourished. Liquor poured freely—sometimes legally, often not. Slot machines hummed in the back rooms. Brothels operated behind bar doors. And when disputes broke out, blood spilled fast and often.

At the center of this chaos was the Dixie Mafia. Less centralized than its northern cousins in New York or Chicago, the Dixie Mafia was more of a loose confederation of career criminals—bank robbers, moonshiners, drug runners, and killers for hire. They weren’t flashy. They didn’t wear suits or issue threats in code. These men were violent, armed, and feared.

The group had roots in Biloxi, Mississippi, and quickly spread across the Deep South, making alliances with corrupt sheriffs, dirty judges, and local club owners. Bribes kept the law at bay. And silence was bought—or enforced.

Operating alongside—and often in conjunction with—the Dixie Mafia was the State Line Mob. They weren’t a copycat. They were a specialized, regional syndicate made up of nightclub owners, pimps, and bootleggers who had one goal: make money by keeping the strip wild.

They offered illegal liquor, controlled prostitution, and ran protection rackets. Many locals feared them. Others relied on them for income. The line between civilian and criminal was often blurry. If you ran a business on the strip, you probably paid a cut to the Mob. If you didn’t? You risked broken windows… or worse.

By the early 1960s, McNairy County was spiraling. Local law enforcement was often underfunded, outgunned, and in some cases, complicit. Crimes went unsolved. Witnesses disappeared. And the people who tried to stand up to the mob found themselves silenced.

It was into this storm that a young, towering man named Buford Pusser would return home—first to wrestle, then to clean up the streets.

But taking on organized crime in a county where it had sunk deep roots wasn’t just dangerous, it was darn near suicidal.

Before Buford Pusser became a lawman, he was a boy from McNairy County with towering ambition—and a towering frame to match.

Born on December 12, 1937, in the small community of Finger, Tennessee, Buford was raised by Carl and Helen Pusser. His father served as the police chief in Adamsville, a town that would later become central to Buford’s story.

Buford attended Adamsville High School, where he stood out—literally and figuratively. At 6-foot-6, he was built for the sports field. He played both football and basketball, earning a reputation as a fierce competitor and natural athlete.

After graduation in the mid-1950s, Buford joined the United States Marine Corps. But his time in the military was short-lived. A diagnosis of asthma led to a medical discharge during boot camp.

Undeterred, Buford left Tennessee in 1957 and moved to Chicago, Illinois. There, he took on factory work during the week and entered the world of semi-professional wrestling on the weekends. Fans knew him by his ring name: “Buford the Bull.” He wrestled throughout the Midwest, earning small paydays and building a reputation as a bruiser.

It was in Chicago that Buford met Pauline Mullins. The two married on December 5, 1959. They had a daughter named Dwana, and together they returned to Tennessee in 1962.

Back home, Buford traded his wrestling boots for a badge. He became Adamsville’s police chief and constable, diving headfirst into the town’s growing problems with crime, bootlegging, and violence.

Then, in 1964, tragedy opened a door. The sitting McNairy County sheriff, James Dickey, died in a car accident. Buford ran for the vacant seat—and won. After narrowly beating out the independent candidate, at just 27-years-old, he became the youngest sheriff in Tennessee.

He brought with him not just size, but determination. And soon, the fight against the State Line Mob and the Dixie Mafia would begin in earnest.

But the man with the badge had a target on his back. And his war was just getting started.

As Buford Pusser tightened his grip on crime in McNairy County, one name kept rising to the surface—Louise Hathcock.

She wasn’t just another club manager. She was sharp, dangerous, and deeply connected to the State Line Mob. Louise ran the Shamrock Motel and Nightclub, a notorious hot spot just off the Tennessee-Mississippi border.

The Shamrock wasn’t just a motel. It was a front for gambling, bootlegging, and worse. Louise didn’t just manage the business—she controlled it. And she had no problem using violence to keep it that way.

Locals whispered about her temper. Some claimed she once attacked a man with a ball-peen hammer. Others said she ruled the roadhouse like a queen—armed, fearless, and untouchable.

Originally, the Shamrock belonged to her husband, Jack Hathcock. But after a violent falling out—and a brutal beating involving mob figure “Towhead” White—Louise took full control. From that point on, it was her territory.

And she wasn’t giving it up.

On February 1, 1966, Sheriff Buford Pusser responded to a call. A robbery complaint tied to the Shamrock. It wasn’t his first time at the motel. But it would be his last.

When Pusser entered the room, Louise was waiting.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t threaten.

She pulled a .38 caliber pistol and opened fire.

But Buford was faster.

He returned fire—hitting her before she could get off a second shot.

Louise Hathcock died on the scene.

The shooting made headlines. A woman—once seen as untouchable—had died in a shootout with the sheriff. Some praised Buford. Others called it an execution. But the facts stood. She had drawn first.

And Buford had fired back.

Her death rocked the State Line Mob. They’d lost a major player—someone who ran one of their most profitable operations. And now, the message was clear: Buford wasn’t backing down.

But neither were they. The war had just escalated.

Less than a year later, on January 2nd, 1967, only days into the new year. Buford Pusser, now sheriff of McNairy County for several years, is still widely viewed as the controlling force against the State Line Mob.

That day, while on patrol, Pusser drives through the county under the predawn darkness. Suddenly, gunfire explodes onto him.

He is shot—not once, but three times, by an unknown assailant. 

Details remain sketchy, but the impact is clear. Pusser is wounded. He must survive. The attack seems aimed at silencing him—or maybe warning him: back off or next time won't be so survivable.

Still, Pusser survives. He’s hurt, but alive. He limps back into the fray. His war continues.

Then came August 12th, 1967—a day that would mark the deepest wound of Buford Pusser’s life.

It started like many others. A disturbance call came in just after midnight—something suspicious out near New Hope Road, close to the Tennessee–Mississippi state line.

Buford, always hands-on, decided to respond himself. His wife, Pauline, asked to ride along. She often worried about him, especially since the shooting in January. This time, she didn’t want to be left behind.

They climbed into Buford’s unmarked 1967 Plymouth and headed toward the call.

The night air was still. The roads were empty. They passed by New Hope Methodist Church. Just as the road narrowed into a darker patch of woods… It happened.

Another car came alongside them. A moving ambush.

Rifles opened fire from the passing vehicle. In a matter of seconds, a hail of bullets struck their car. Windows shattered. Metal screamed.

Buford was hit—a bullet tore through his jaw, ripping it apart. He lost control of the car.

Pauline was hit too. One bullet—maybe more—found her. The car careened to a stop in a ditch. Buford, bleeding and dazed, looked to his right.

His wife was slumped over. Lifeless. She had died instantly.

When deputies arrived, they found Buford clutching Pauline’s body, her head resting in his lap. The front seat was stained with blood. Eleven shell casings were recovered near the scene. Eleven shots. One fatal hit.

Buford was rushed to the hospital in Selmer, then transferred to Memphis for advanced treatment. His jaw was shattered. Doctors had to rebuild it using wire and plastic. He couldn't speak for weeks. He wrote notes on a pad to communicate.

But even through the swelling, the silence, and the pain, he made it clear— He knew who did it.

He told close friends and reporters the names he believed were behind it. Most notably: Carl “Towhead” White, a leading figure in the State Line Mob. And others too—mobsters, nightclub owners, contract killers. But nothing would be proven in court.

Pauline’s funeral was held days later. Hundreds attended. She had been a mother, a wife, and a quiet pillar of strength behind a larger-than-life man. Now, she was gone.

The murder devastated Buford. And it enraged him. He would later say this was the moment he truly declared war. Not just on the bars and backrooms. Not just on the men behind the money. But on those who took his wife and shattered his world.

By 1968, Buford Pusser was no longer just a sheriff. He was a symbol. A scarred, unrelenting force with a badge. And he wasn’t slowing down. But the war he was fighting wasn’t without cost. 

The shootouts didn’t stop. Neither did the ambushes. Enemies still circled—some in cars, others in dark alleys, and many in smoky clubs where his name was whispered like a curse.

On Christmas Day, 1968, while families unwrapped presents and shared meals, Pusser was out in the field. That afternoon, he responded to a domestic threat. A man named Charles Russell Hamilton had pulled a gun on his landlord. Buford confronted him.

The man wouldn’t back down.

And once again—Buford pulled the trigger. Hamilton was killed on the spot. It was ruled justified. Another line crossed in a life full of them. But violence wasn’t the only thing shaping his story now. 

In bars across Tennessee, jukeboxes began to echo a new kind of ballad.

Eddie Bond, a rockabilly musician—and former deputy of Buford’s—released a song titled simply, “Buford Pusser.” It told the story of a man fighting crime with his fists, his gun, and his grief.

The song struck a chord.

It was later expanded into a full album: The Legend of Buford Pusser. Produced by the legendary Cowboy Jack Clement, and released on a Stax Records imprint, the album painted Buford as a Southern folk hero. A man carved from tragedy. A living, breathing myth.

It played in roadhouses, honky-tonks, and even family kitchens. His story was no longer just ink on paper. It had a beat. A melody. A voice.

But while others sang about his strength, Buford’s body kept breaking.

In October of 1969, while driving his supercharged 1969 Ford XL, Buford lost control and crashed. The wreck shattered his already-fragile face—bones that had been held together since the 1967 ambush now fractured again.

He was rushed into surgery.

Doctors fought to repair the damage. Wire. Plastic. Pins. More stitches. More scars. Each time he healed, the face in the mirror looked a little less like the man he once was—and more like the legend people expected him to be.

Despite the wounds, despite the grief—Buford kept his badge.

In 1969, the Tennessee General Assembly honored him. They named him Honorary Sergeant-at-Arms. A title that didn’t give him new power—but gave him something else:

Legitimacy.

A nod from the statehouse. A sign that Nashville saw what he was doing—and approved.

Across the country, he was being mentioned in magazines, small-town papers, and police circles. Some stories claimed he was named National Officer of the Month. The records are blurry—but the story stuck.

People believed it. Because by now, everything about Buford Pusser felt larger than life.

His story had fists and fury. Blood and betrayal. But now, it also had a soundtrack.

And the legend was still growing.

By 1970, Buford Pusser was a household name in Tennessee—and a whispered one across the South.

He had survived ambushes, gunfights, car crashes, and heartache. His face bore the scars. His eyes, the loss.

But even legends have limits.

That year, he chose not to run for re-election as sheriff.

The battles had taken a toll. His wife was gone. His enemies were still out there. His body, broken and stitched together, needed rest. But Buford Pusser wouldn’t disappear.

In fact… he was about to become immortal.  

In 1973, Hollywood released a film inspired by his life. It was gritty. Bloody. Tragic. And defiant. It was called Walking Tall. The movie told the story of a man who comes home to find his county corrupted—plagued by illegal gambling, moonshine runners, crooked cops, and organized crime. He runs for sheriff. He wins. And he fights back.

Not with politics. Not with speeches. But with a big stick.

Walking Tall hit theaters with unexpected force. Directed by Phil Karlson, it was made on a shoestring budget—just half a million dollars. But the response? Explosive.

The film grossed over $40 million. Word-of-mouth made it a Southern staple.

And at the center of it all was Joe Don Baker, cast as Buford. Baker wasn’t just acting. He became Pusser—grim, wounded, and ready for war. He gave the character the quiet intensity that made audiences believe every punch, every gunshot, every growl of justice.

Playing Pauline, Buford’s wife, was Elizabeth Hartman. She was tender. Gentle.

The emotional balance to Baker’s rage. Her portrayal made Pauline’s death—onscreen and off—feel like the heart of the story shattering.

Supporting characters were drawn from the real world too: His parents, his children, even the corrupt figures who lined the county’s back roads and barrooms. But the names were changed. The events condensed. It was storytelling, not a documentary. 

The film painted Buford as a one-man army. He’s shown wielding a hickory stick like a war hammer—bringing justice to the unjust, busting slot machines, breaking down doors. Every scar on his face became a badge of honor. Every loss—a reason to keep going.

And though Walking Tall took liberties—blending fact with fiction, tightening timelines, inventing dialogue—it captured the spirit of the man. A sheriff who stood alone, a widower who refused to quit, and a fighter who never waited for backup.

The public couldn’t get enough. Jukeboxes played Eddie Bond’s ballads. Teenagers quoted the movie. And grown men nodded, saying, “That’s how justice oughta be.”

In Nashville, the Tennessee General Assembly had already named Pusser an Honorary Sergeant-at-Arms. Now, with Walking Tall, he became something more: A symbol.

Not just of law enforcement… But of vengeance. Of rural grit. Of doing what needed to be done when no one else would.

Pauline’s death—portrayed with devastating sorrow—was the turning point in the film, just as it had been in Buford’s life.

Her grave became a recurring symbol. A place of mourning. Of memory. And of motivation.

Walking Tall didn’t just tell a story… It cemented a legacy.

And Buford Pusser—scarred, battered, and grieving—walked out of the shadows and onto the silver screen, larger than life.

The movie made him famous. For the first time in years, he wasn’t chasing criminals or dodging bullets. He was shaking hands. Signing autographs. Talking to producers.

People wanted him to run for office. Some wanted him to run for governor.

But Buford had something else in mind. He wanted to play himself. Hollywood had started work on a sequel—Walking Tall Part II. This time, Buford wasn’t just giving permission. He was stepping in front of the camera. Joe Don Baker wouldn’t be returning. Pusser would portray his own story. His own pain. His own truth.

He met with producers. He read the script. He agreed to the role.

But he’d never get the chance.

On August 21st, 1974, Buford Pusser attended the McNairy County Fair. He smiled for photos. He laughed with old friends. He told one reporter he was finally ready to turn the page—to move on.

Later that night, Buford got into his burgundy 1974 Chevrolet Corvette and left the fairgrounds. Not long after, the car left the road at high speed. It struck an embankment, flipped, and burst into flames.

Buford was thrown from the wreckage. He died at the scene. He was only 36-years-old.

News spread fast. A hero, gone in an instant. For some, it was just a tragic car accident.

For others—it was something darker. Rumors swirled. Had someone tampered with the car? Was it revenge? Or fate?

No foul play was ever proven. But the questions never really stopped.

Thousands attended his funeral. He was buried beside Pauline. The man who survived bullets, ambushes, and explosions… Was taken by the road. He never got to film the sequel. Never told the rest of the story.

But the legend? It never died.

Buford Pusser became a symbol of grit. Of justice. Of standing alone when no one else would.

They told us Buford Pusser was a hero. He stood tall. He fought back. He carried a big stick and didn’t flinch when the world got ugly. His story was sold to us in songs, in books, on grainy film reels and weathered VHS tapes. The good guy, alone against the darkness. The sheriff who cleaned up the streets with blood on his boots and justice in his fists.

And maybe, for a time, that version was true.

But what happens when the smoke clears? When the bullets stop flying and all that’s left are the wounds… and the questions? What do we do when the man behind the myth—our so-called hero—isn’t who we thought he was?

Recently, the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation and a local District Attorney's office announced the conclusion of their three-year investigation into the death of Pauline Pusser. Her body was exhumed and autopsied and the results were shocking. 

According to Mark Davidson, District Attorney General for the 25th Judicial District, “Events did not occur as stated by Buford Pusser and that Pauline Pusser was more likely than not shot outside the vehicle and then placed inside the vehicle.

The investigation found that Buford Pusser's gunshot wound was likely self-inflicted. It had all the markings of a close contact wound, not long range as he had originally described. 

On August 12th, 1967, Buford Pusser claimed his wife agreed to accompany him on a disturbance call. He originally told responding officers that they were ambushed and shot by unknown individuals in a passing car.

The case was closed quickly and built solely on Buford Pusser’s own statement. There was no autopsy performed at the time because no one thought it was possible that Buford would be lying. He had named suspects but no one was ever brought to justice for the murder. 

The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation has compiled over 1,000 pages of evidence that has led investigators to state that if he were alive today, they would have enough to present an indictment to the McNairy County grand jury for their consideration against Buford Pusser for the murder of his wife Pauline. 

In a surprising move, the TBI is making the whole case file a public record but it will take time to digitize the files. In Buford’s hometown of Adamsville, where there is a museum inside of his old home dedicated to him, the city’s mayor and the board of commissions will review the findings and make a decision on what will come next. 

Pauline’s only living sibling is happy to finally feel like he has closure. Buford’s granddaughter feels differently, stating - 

“What I do know, is my family has endured traumatic loss that few people can comprehend. A dead man, who cannot defend himself, is being accused of an unspeakable crime. I don’t understand what justice can be accomplished by pursuing this theory of my grandmother’s death. Our family has been through enough pain and loss because of my grandfather’s law enforcement career and we aren’t looking to reopen closed wounds.”

Now, investigators have agreed that none of this is definitive proof. It can’t be wrapped up neatly with a pretty bow placed on top but it has certainly put a stain on a man who became a legend in the south. 

Buford Pusser’s story has spawned a total of four movies, the original Walking Tall,  Part 2 in 1975, the Final Chapter: Walking Tall in 1977, and a remake of sorts, starring Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson released in 2004. They were all fictionalized retellings of one man’s story. 

But like those movies, legends aren’t always built on truth. 

Pauline Pusser never got to tell her story. For decades, we only heard Buford’s version of that night. The ambush. The grief. The vengeance.

But now, with the knowledge that there was no autopsy, no real investigation. And now, decades later, science has done what the system never did. It’s asked hard questions. It’s turned over the stones. It’s told us that maybe… just maybe… The sheriff we called a martyr might have also been something else.

The truth is uncomfortable. It’s complicated. And it doesn’t fit neatly into a movie poster.

But it matters. Because every time we deify a man and ignore the woman beside him, we risk burying more than just the facts. We bury people. We bury justice.

Pauline Pusser’s name was nearly lost beneath the weight of her husband’s legend.

Not anymore.

Her story—however late it comes—deserves to be heard. And maybe, in that telling, we find something more honest than a hero. We find a warning.

That the people we place on pedestals…Are still people. Flawed. Fallen. And sometimes… far from what we believed.

What do you think? Do you have any stories of fallen heroes? Let me know, Nathan@curator135.com - I’ll have photos and articles from this story up on the website, Curator135.com

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