"Tell ya what," Clayton said as all the language just washed over him and left him untouched. "Only word I need to know is 'sashimi.'"

When a copy of the Primer got to him, he mostly looked at the pictures as that tightassed commissar started ranting about what he'd do to the lot of them. When Cleet-Bob was brought up, he glanced up, "What? Oh, well sure. Maybe pop some smoke so we can mess with their sightin' and get in real close and flush 'em out with frags fore an assault. C'mon, Padre, we ain't that tinhorned stupid. Frontal assault? Heyyy-ll. We'll bushwhack them sumbitches real good you just wait and see." He spat into the sawdust, "Plenty'a cattle and horse stealin' no good sumbitches in Texanis need shootin' and plenty of us done it. Ain't never profited no one to go chargin' into the guns when you can take 'em unawares." 

It was easy to forget that Texans loved to fight, but they weren't quite on the Ork level. Bandit raids, cattle rustlin, horse-stealin. Hangin' offenses. There weren't enough Arbites to go around, so Texanis relied on posses to do the Emperor's, take yer hat off boy, justice in his stead.

But Clayton's moment of tactical clarity came and it went, and it was a good thing -- he might be mistaken for smart in a couple of seconds, and that wouldn't do. "Say, y'all think we oughta invite them Navy candyasses into a ball game? Might be fun to watch 'em turn all kinda shades of yella."