Of all the things they dealt with, hypercattle rustlers were perhaps the easiest to dispatch—to the degree that it had hardly been five minutes before Sparks and Croach had them on the run.
They couldn't be sure if it was complacency that got them, or just bad luck, but all the same—neither of them could have anticipated anything like… this.
"So long, Sparks Nevada!" As the rustlers hightailed toward the horizon, a gleaming silver canister arced through the air—directly towards them, its beeping becoming more insistent as it counted down to detonation.
As soon as it touched solid ground, the flash and bang knocked both the marshal and the tracker back, kicking up red dust. Croach was the first to recover, his head lifting slowly and his antennae twitching as his various senses recovered. Aside from sore and a little rattled, he was uninjured, and in spite of their distressed hums, the hypercattle were uninjured, as well.
He pushed himself up and dusted as much of the soil from his clothes as possible. "Sparks Nevada?"
"Croach?" As the dust settled, he was able to catch sight of the marshal—kneeling, doubled over his hands clamped almost protectively over his eyes.
"What happened?" He dropped into a crouch in front of him, catching him by the arm and moving to pull him upright; the human didn't budge. "Sparks Nevada, what happened?"
"Got me good—" The words came through clenched teeth. "Bastards got me good—" He winced sharply, then swore. "Fuck—"
"Let me see." Croach's hands gripped Sparks' wrists. "Let me see what happened."
With great reluctance, Sparks lowered his hands and lifted his face, now flushed pink. His pupils were wide, the typically deep brown irises little more than a thin ring. After a moment, they both came to the same realization, that despite their proximity and looking right at one another—"Croach I can't see—"
Despite the desert heat, the words were met with an almost ominous chill in the air. The tracker released Sparks' hands before reaching around his neck, loosening his bandanna. "This will likely cause you discomfort," he warned, folding it into a thin strip before moving to re-tie it over Sparks' eyes, "but it will protect your eyes from the sun."
Discomfort seemed to be an understatement, if the groans the marshal tried (and failed) to bite back were any indication. No words were exchanged—Croach too focused on rendering whatever first aid, both human and Martian, he could, and Sparks in too much pain to be capable of conversation.
As if by wordless command, Mercury trotted over to the pair, nosing his master's shoulder. If Sparks noticed it, he didn't acknowledge it. Croach offered the horse a scratch on the muzzle before heaving Sparks to his feet. He followed without resistance, and after some awkward direction (and more than a fair bit of pained curses), he was in the saddle once more.
Having no other options, Croach wrapped Mercury's reins loosely around his hand and started guiding the horse and its rider through the desert.