IVWHAT HAPPENED THEN was not in any wise comprehensible to Chip Warren.
Had Blacky Jordan turned viciously on the latecomer, striking her down as brutally as he had Chip and Salvation—that would have been understandable. Or had he meekly begged forgiveness—that, too, Chip could have understood. For the girl was—had to be!—either one of two things. Servant or mistress of the pirate chieftain.
But Jordan did neither of these things. Instead, he fingered his cheek where it flamed dull scarlet against brown, and his eyes were cloudy pools of anger and some contrasting emotion Chip could not name. His fingers twitched, his mouth worked. Then something like a shrug stirred his shoulders; he turned to his silently watching followers.
“Well—what are you standin’ around here for? You got work to
