The following comes from the diary of U.S. Marshal B.W. Fox. Any connection it has with this year's national championship game is purely coincidental. It is best appreciated if you imagine renowned thespian Sam Elliott doing the narration.
Let me tell you about the greatest spectacle I ever did see. It was the mid-winter of 1849 and I was recovering from a hard three weeks of marshalin' in a little town outside Dallas, Texas.
I had popped in to the local watering hole to ease the stress a might, when sometime around midday, the urge struck me to go outside and stare out into a field. Truth is, I didn't have much else to stare at back in those days. It wasn't like I could stay inside and watch the sight of two fellas dueling projected above the bar.
So I was ambling my way out to this pasture when I saw a bison standing alone in a field of the greenest grass you'll ever see. Almost looked fake. It was rare for me to see such a magnificent beast all by its lonesome so close to town, so I thought I might go take a closer look.
As the bison, we'll call him Thundar, came into focus (my eyesight is worse than the approval rating of ole Zach Taylor — makes marshalin' super difficult), I could see that he was madder than Annie Oakley without her pistol. That big son of a gun was literally stompin' mad.
Now I have a rule to never mess with an angry bison, so I ducked behind a bush and gazed out at him, trying to figure out the source of this bovine consternation. Just then, an eagle, let's call her Swoop, came swooping down out of the sun and clawed at Thundar's eyes. The big fella stamped his feet and swung his horns, but Swoop was gone as fast as she'd dropped in, and was circling, ready for another attack.
It was clear the bee in his bonnet could fly, but it was quite a bit bigger. I knew my friends Jesse and Robert would never believe this unnatural occurrence, so I reached into my pocket for a recording device of some kind, but then I remembered it was 1849.
As I watched in awe, Swoop used a diverse aerial attack to frustrate Thundar, who was clearly the more powerful beast. She scrambled through the air, she used a branch as a screen from his horns, she even used a little bit of ground game, sneaking up behind Thundar and clawing the legs of that furry chug-a-lug.
It was the ground that was eventually her undoing. She was swoopin' down in another attempt at his eyes (that bird was as persistent as a prairie dog) when one of his horns clipped her on the wing and sent her crashing to the grassy prairie surface. She tried valiantly to return to the air, but had hurt one of her legs in the fall and was slow getting up.
Thundar did not squander that moment of weakness. He lowered his head and charged, catching her with his horns again and again, each of his four legs a unique and powerful component of a potent ground attack. For some reason, I had the urge to call that setup a backfield. Maybe it was because I was in a field in back of the saloon.
Anyway, once Thundar engaged his overwhelming ground attack, it was pretty much over. As soon as our furry friend had confirmed the eagle was not getting up, he tilted his head back and let out seven distinct yells of triumph. For whatever reason, friends, that number seven stuck with me. I'll feel those yells in my bones as long as I live.
I was awed and shocked by the display, but i had so many questions: When I came up with the name Thundar, why did I spell it wrong? Why would the eagle come within ten paces of those horns? And most importantly, why were they fightin' in the first place? Did some shadowy, evil non-profit organization set this up for my benefit? i guess I'll never know.
So that's my story, partner. I've gotta leave now to go do some more marshalin'. See you on down the trail.
