Bret: And that's when you hand me the tools thru the window?
Buckley: Yes, of course.
Bret: And then I hand you the … gold back thru the window?
Bret: And I'm left there all alone, locked up tight.
Buckley: Maverick, my friend, have I ever given you cause to think … (Bret just stares at him) Oh, I have, eh? All right, then suppose you come up with a better plan.
Bret (pulling out a deck of cards): Low man goes to jail.
Buckley: Oh, no, no. I'm supplying the brains in this deal. You, my friend, the brawn.
Bret: Cut or get yourself another jailbird.