Silken curtains, stained glass, persian rugs and silver chandeliers -- such were the trappings of the establishment Langton entered in Nob Hill, San Francisco's most elegant district. The bouncer behind the bar had a standing order to forcibly eject individuals whose bearing and costume did not match the opulent decor ... and Langton, after his dip at the docks and escape from Dineen and company, did not measure up to the desired requirements.

This bouncer needed no bung-starter. His bunched fists were like hams, biceps rippled as he rose, strode menacingly, purposefully toward Langton.

"Sully, wait."

The voice was feminine, soft. A black-haired lady wrapped in a flowing silk dress rose from a long, ornately-covered couch, where a bevy of scantily-clad lovelies lounged long-legged. She crossed the floor, her look of astonishment changing to one of concern as she drew near to Langton. She reached up, ran her fingers through Langton's wet hair, fingered the grimy, sodden buckskin jacket, and whispered his name in wonder and worry. Langton stood erect, let her hands roam on his stubbled face.

With a nod to the heavyset bouncer, she took Langton to her room up the stairs, undressed him, bathed and nursed him. Presently he lay between soft sheets, his aches and fatigue subsiding in deep slumber.

Sunlight shone warm on his face, pouring down on yellow shafts through open French windows as he awoke, much later. Her long fingers ran over his forehead, his chin. He turned.

"Anna." She put her finger to his lips, smiled, kissed him. Long. He had been gone a long time. He drew her close, held her, made up for the many missing months.

The sun was near its zenith when they lay spent, drained. She drew herself up on one elbow, studied his long, lean form, his chiselled, rough-hewn face. A wistful sigh of resignation left her lips.

"Still running, eh, Langton? They haven't pinned you down yet. The man no jail can hold ... the man not even a woman's arms can keep for long."

Langton said nothing. His eyes flickered, he ran his hands slowly through her hair.

"Just for a little while..." her voice was languid, bittersweet.

Langton relaxed, let his memory wander, through the long years of lonely, two-horse towns and nameless trails. Living from bank job to holdup, bullet to bullet, sultry seņoritas in old Mexico and worn-out saloon girls in fly-blown roadhouses. With nothing ahead but another dusty town.

And always, dogging his trail, one step behind, Dineen. Cameron Dineen, Wells Fargo manhunter and Langton's sworn enemy.

He turned to gaze out the window, pensive, moody. In his heart, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way.

He fingered the satin sheets, turned his head to admire the brass bedstead, the high, shimmering chandelier, the lace curtains weaving in the breeze over the open, cut-glass French windows.

"You didn't do too bad with your half from the El Paso job, baby." She had been on the inside, had supplied the keys and the layout of the First National in El Paso. Langton took the bank for all it was worth, in a clean, one-step night haul.

"I needed this, Langton. I'm not like you, I couldn't run forever. I thought you might come with me..."

There was no chance of that, and they both knew it. Their moments together could only be brief interludes, calm moments of peace on a troubled sea.

She had been a song and dance girl when Langton first met her in Cheyenne, singing the same worn-out trail tunes night after night, working for a cut of the profit on the liquor she helped sell to the miners and lumberjacks. She was fed up with the small time, was looking for the big break when Langton found her.

They made a good team. She used her business skills to get a job on the inside with banks, mining companies, even one Wells Fargo express office, gaining access to keys and cash. After she set it up, Langton would come in for the cleanup.

There was a difference, though. She was saving her split, wanting enough to open a fancy house in Frisco. She needed the security, the sure footing. He robbed banks, ran con jobs because it was his life. The booze, women, good times that money bought were fine, but they did not satisfy him. The getting of money, the thrill of the sting sustained him, gave him drive, purpose.

The money never lasted long, was never meant to. So much of it went for whisky, fine clothes, fancy women, no-limit gambling. Langton could never be happy, never breathe with a secure source of cash. And so, no matter how much they seemed alike, how much they wanted to believe they could be compatible, they could not be more different.

"A man named Hartley ever come in here?" asked Langton, casually.

"Hartley...." she paused. "Yes, that's him. He comes in here to see Janie quite often. He's one of our best customers." She frowned. "Too good, I'm afraid."

"How's that?" queried Langton.

"I'm afraid he's quite taken with her. He's said he'll take her away soon."

"You wouldn't want to lose Janie, is that it?"

"Oh no, if she wants out, that's okay. There's no shortage of girls looking for work. It's Hartley's wife that bothers me."

"His wife?"

"She's been jilted, and she doesn't like it. She's going to raise hell if he leaves her high and dry. I heard he kicked her out without a cent. I don't need that kind of hassle, Langton. I pay enough to the cops and judges to leave me alone now as it is."

"Hartley's spending a lot of cash on your Janie, huh?"

"Bundles. Dresses, champagne, you name it. She told me last night he was going to bring her a special gift."

"Is that so?" pushed Langton.

"Uh huh. I think he's bringing her a box full of diamonds."