The man who arrived in town was pale as a tumbleweed. Pale hair like the sand dunes. Light eyes like the dusty fields of crops. Pasty skin like the watered down whiskey he drank in the saloon.
The man so thoroughly lacked color that no one else bothered to notice him. They played cards and drank and flirted with the bar wenches and brothel girls and made more interesting and colorful pursuits their entire concern.
So it was that no one noticed when the man, finishing his whiskey and setting the glass down for the barman, stood, unholstered his pistol and shot Tracy Marble right in the head.
Tracy fell over dead. His body hitting the floor silenced the entire room.
“That was for Mary,” the colorless man said.
Then he left.