“I know not the name. He captured the man-eating horses of Diomedes, too. They’re penned up now, of course, and malefactors are fed to them, Eurystheus doesn’t like Hercules; he’s afraid of his growing popularity with the people. But he doesn’t dare kill him outright. He just gives him harder and harder tasks to perform.
Nessus bent toward the king and whispered again. Eurystheus smiled and stroked his beard. He stared at Hercules.
“It has come to our knowledge,” the king rumbled, “that you struck a costermonger and dislocated his jaw. What was his offense?”
“Gosh,” Hercules said, plaintively, “he stepped on my corns. He was try in’ to sell me some goldenrod an’ I can’t stand the stuff. An’ he wouldn’t go away. I don’t get this set-up, anyway—”
“Yipee!” The involuntary cry burst from Pete’s lips. The guard made a frantic clutch as his captive sprang forward. A spear whizzed past Mr. Manx’s head, and a soldier shouted, “An assassin! Slay him!”
But Pete wasn’t heading toward the king. He was embracing Hercules.
“Biggie! It’s you!” Pete gurgled at the lion-skinned man.
“Hey—you sound like Pete!” Hercules said. “What’sa idea of this whacky get-up, anyhow? What—”
Pete scrambled to safety behind the hero’s brawny legs as a soldier approached, waving a spear. But King Eurystheus lifted a hand.
“A friend of yours, Hercules? Who is this helot?”
“Mank is the name, your honor—”
“Silence!” Pete’s guard bellowed. He bowed low before the king. “A runaway slave, your majesty. I caught him and brought him back for judgment.”
“I see.” Eurystheus scrabbled in his beard. “Well, throw him to the man-eating horses. We can’t have such goings-on in Tiryns. It’s bad enough with the imperial treasury running at a deficit and the people objecting to our taxes, without slaves getting above themselves. To the man-eaters with him.”
Two soldiers grabbed Pete, who clung frantically to Bigpig’s pillarlike legs.
“Make ’em go ’way,” Manx babbled. “Soak ’em, Biggie—quick!”
Mr. Callahan hesitated, scratched his head thoughtfully, and then swung immense arms. The soldiers described an irregular orbit across the room, ending up by folding around an impassive pillar. They slid down gently to the floor.
“Sedition!” Nessus cried, his thin, handsome face alight with malice. “Slay them both!”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Biggie roared, suddenly getting the idea. “Pete’s a pal of mine. You can’t push him around.”
There was a silence. Eurystheus leaned toward Nessus.
“I can’t order Hercules killed,” he whispered, “The people won’t stand for it.”
“Well, kill the slave,” said Ness as, with what Pete thought an unnecessary enthusiasm.
But Biggie folded his arms and scowled.
“Pete’s my pal. If anybody lays a finger on him—”
THERE was a silence. It was a deadlock, and no one realized this as well as Mr. Manx. From his experience with kings and Pharaohs, he knew how important it was for regents to keep face, and his mind was working furiously in an attempt to find an out, Maybe there was a way—
“Now wait a minute, your majesty,” he said, gulping. “I got an idea we can settle this out of court. You said the treasury was running in the red. Suppose I show you a way to clean up plenty—”
“Kill him!” Nessus snapped, but the king leaned forward interestedly.
“Eh? Are you talking about—”
“Money,” Pete said enticingly, “Gold, Dinero, The long green.” Eurystheus shushed Nessus with a lifted hand.
“He may know where some treasure is hidden. Come forward, slave, I shall hear from you.”
Pete glanced around.
“This has gotta be a private audience. Just you and me and—uh—Hercules here.”
There was a little wrangle about this, but presently the courtroom was cleared. Nessus, however, remained, glaring at Pete and Hercules with vicious eyes.
“Now,” said Eurystheus, “speak up, or my torturers will make you. Where is this treasure buried?”
By this time Pete had had time to consider possible angles. Somehow his mind had gone blank. What Tiryns needed was some up-to-date racket that would pay dividends—but what? Not knowing much about the culture and life of the Hellenic city, it was impossible to say. Pete cast back to what he had seen during his progress toward the palace. Chariots . . .
“Who owns all these two-wheel jalopies around here?” he asked.
“Don’t change the subject,” the king growled. “About this treasure—”
“It’s on the main stem, just waiting to be picked up,” Pete said hurriedly. “Your transportation system’s lousy. No subways, no El’s, no buses. It’d be tough to make those here in Tiryns, sure, but you’ve got a ready-made business here with these chariots. It’s too hot to walk. What Tiryns needs are taxis . . .”
It took an hour to explain the situation to Eurystheus, but Pete’s glib tongue finally convinced the king.
“But I gotta get something out of it, King,” he argued. “I’ll fix up the whole business for you—take care of all the angles—but you gotta give me a franchise on the main stem. Only ray cabs can run there. No competition. We can keep the fares up that way.”
“A franchise?” The king pondered. “Well, you say you’ll give me fifty per cent of all the profits. How long will this arrangement keep up?”
Nessus whispered in the royal ear. Eurystheus smiled and turned to Hercules.
“You vouch for this slave? Good. Then he is safe for your lifetime, Hercules. We are merciful. The franchise is valid as long as you live.”
And, despite Pete’s objections, so it was arranged.
WHEN Manx started something, he finished it. He got a moneylender to put up a small amount of gold, with Hercules’ famous lion-skin as security, and with this as a basis, took an option on a few dozen cheap chariots. Creating taximeters was not too great a problem, once Pete understood the monetary exchange of the city. Cogged gears, connected with the chariot wheels, caused various dials to revolve, indicating the fare.
“You gotta put on a front,” Pete explained to the wide-eyed Biggie. “Help me splash on some of this gilt paint.” It wasn’t long before the chariots were finished. Nobody would have recognized them.
They gleamed like gold, and had striped awnings to protect the occupants from the heat of the sun. On the backs were stenciled glaring red signs:
PETROS MANKOS CABS
Six Can Ride for the Price of One
Why Walk? Ride in Cool Comfort
Pete had purposely bought small, light chariots, for he saw no reason to incur the expense of purchasing and caring for horses. Instead, it was easy, with a little labor, to transform the conveyances into rickshaws, which could be drawn easily by the drivers themselves.
“It worked at the Fair,” Pete mused smugly, “so why not here?”
And it did work! For years the common people had enviously eyed the chariots which they could not afford to own. Now they paid gladly to ride briefly on a level with nobles. The nobles, however, didn’t like it. They had a way of driving recklessly into Pete’s cabs and overturning them.
Mr. Manx was equal to the occasion. Within a few days a new fleet of cabs made their appearance on the streets of Tiryns. They were purple, with golden spangles, and had bright orange awnings with tassels. Small fans, connected with the turning wheels, helped to keep the riders cool. The fare was double that of the plebian chariots, but these cabs modestly advertised the legend:
ULTRA LIMOUSINE SERVICE
For Those Who Can Afford the Best
Fans and Music Provided
The limousine charioteers were specially picked and trained by Pete. In the absence of radios, he decided to depend on the human voice, and soon the limousine cabs were rolling along merrily, drawn by huskies who yodeled popular songs Pete taught them. “
Wagon Wheels,” “My Merry Oldsmobile,” and “Heigh-Ho” were the favorites, until the charioteers got short of wind and threatened to strike for a ten-song-a-day minimum.
Pete installed a special seat at the back of the cabs, and placed on each one a neatly-uniformed blonde with a zither, who thereafter sang and played while the cabmen devoted their energies to pulling. The nobles, who heretofore had preferred their own private, horse-drawn chariots, now flocked to the Ultra Limousine Service. “Honey draws flies,” Pete remarked sagely to Bigpig. “And honeys draw guys. Not bad, eh?”
CHAPTER III
Home, on the Range
PETE found no difficulty in renewing the options on the chariots, and more were immediately added. Tiryns was a changed city. By the end of the second week Pete was able to present King Eurystheus with three bags filled with gold. He was, however, distressed to find Nessus closeted with the king, obviously up to no good.
“I don’t like that shavetail,” he told Biggie—and his fears were justified when the pair were summoned to the palace the next day. Eurystheus showered them with compliments and praised the cut of Hercules’ lion skin, which Pete had redeemed out of hock. “A mighty hero,” he said tauntingly, glancing at Nessus. “How long has it been since you killed Geryon? A year? You must grow stale here with nothing to do. Suppose you trot off to Elis and clean the Augean stables.”
“Suppose he don’t?” Pete made the mistake of inquiring.
“Hercules is under bond to me,” said the king. “In expatiation of various crimes. If he fails to obey me and refuses the tasks I set him, he dies. But the mighty Hercules will obey, X am sure.”
“Okay,” said Pete, shrugging. “We’re in. So we’re stable-boys. But don’t think I don’t get the angle—”
He didn’t finish. It wasn’t necessary. But, later, he got Nessus aside an of proceeded to insult the officer vigorously.
“You put the king up to this, shavetail. My franchise is good as long as Hercules lives, but Eurystheus doesn’t like the idea of splitting the take with us, If Hercules just Happens to kick the bucket, I lose the franchise—”
“And will be flung to the man-eating horses,” Nessus said nastily. “I’ll make sure of that, slave.”
Pete was feeling none too well when he and Bigpig arrived at the neighboring kingdom of Elis, King Augeias was a huge, fat man with a helpless air of incompetence whenever he ordered people executed, which he did far too often for Pete’s peace of mind. Cleaning the Augean stables was no small task. They hadn’t been cleaned for thirty years!
“Well, we’ll be finished in thirty years, maybe,” said Biggie, staring at the mess.
Pete shook his head.
“Won’t do. There’s a time limit. There’s gotta be an out—there always is, if you look hard enough. Though I dunno—”
“Can’t you high-pressure the big shot into giving us some help?” Bigpig asked.
“No. We’ve got to do it ourselves—wait!” Pete’s eyes widened. “High-pressure—you said something that time, pal. I got an idea—and what an idea.”
He fled, dragging the bewildered Hercules with him. Pete had remembered that two great rivers—the Alpheios and the Peneios—flowed near the stables, and that higher up the slope was a natural lake. King Angelas was willing to provide Hercules with all the facilities he required, but not with any man-power. So Pete took advantage of the royal offer and laid a pipe-line from the lake down to the stables.
Force of gravity did the rest. When a valve was turned, a jet of water, hard as a bar of iron, thrust itself resistlessly out of the nozzle. It took all of Bigpig’s Herculean strength to manipulate the hose, but the gadget worked! A deluge flopped the stables, and, even before Pete expected, the job was finished.
“Quicker than the WPA could have done it,” Pete remarked cryptically.
“Thanks,” said King Augeias. “Come back in thirty years and do it again, eh?”
KING EURYSTHEUS nibbled his beard and Nessus cursed in vicious monotone when Pete and Hercules returned to Tiryns. The taxicab business was booming. Gold poured into the coffers. Half of it went to the king, but the latter wanted it all. Pete suspected that he was thinking up some even more difficult task for Hercules to perform.
Unexpectedly, trouble came from Bigpig himself. Ill at ease in this alien time-sector, he kept wandering about, picking fights and getting in jams until Pete was really worried. It was vital that Hercules keep the good will of the people, for that protected him from the king’s malice.
“No,” Mr. Manx said coldly. “You can’t open a beer joint. Ain’t the taxicab racket good enough for you?”
“I wisht I was back in Montana,” Bigpig mourned. “If I had a cayuse between my legs—”
“Uh! That’s an idea. It’ll keep you out of trouble, anyway. Listen, Biggie; suppose I help you start a Dude Ranch?”
“Huh?”
“It’ll clean up.” Pete was rapidly becoming enthusiastic about his own project. “The people’ll eat it up . . .”
Also it would keep Bigpig out of the king’s icy eye, but that was not entirely dependable, with Nessus around. Nevertheless the plan went forward. Soon the streets of Tiryns were placarded with large, flaming signs. The chariot-cabs carried them, too.
HERCULES’ DUDE RANCH
Mgr., Petros Marthas
Open to the Public on Next Saturn’s Day
Big Free Show
Cow-punchers—bull dogging—
bronco-busting
RODEO!
Why go to the beach on your vacation?
Spend a week or two at
HERCULES’ DUDE RANCH!
The grand opening was a huge success. Vast mobs attended. Celebrities were brought free to the premiere in the Petros Mankos cabs for the occasion.
They all applauded loudly, and were conquered, Bigpig begged to be allowed to wear a pair of chaps like the other hands, whom he had trained, but Pete was adamant.
“That lion-skin’s your trademark,” he insisted. “Everybody knows it.”
“Heck,” said Mr. Callahan. “It smells.”
Though this was undeniable, Bigpig knew Pete too well to argue further. As for the other Greek lads, they threw themselves into their duties with excited glee. Already good horsemen, they soon learned the western lore Pete Bigpig taught them. There were, of course, no guitars, but the boys were provided with withers, and managed to master some ballads. Around the campfire that night the crowds listened intently while, “Git along, little dogie,” resounded dulcetly over the broad Hellenic plains.
There was a barbecue. The rodeo was overwhelmingly successful, especially when Hercules bulldogged a giant steer. He had taught the hands how to handle lariats, and there was an exhibition of lassoing that was a highlight of the day. By the time most of the crowd had left, success was assured. Already there were more reservations than Pete could handle.
“We’ll build new bunk-houses,” Manx told Bigpig. “These mugs are used to sleeping on anything. We’ll cram ’em in like sardines and tell ’em they’re roughing it. What a take! And we don’t have to split a penny with old Sticky-whiskers.”
JUST then a messenger arrived from old Sticky-whiskers.
“A new labor for you, Hercules!” was the announcement. “The marshes of Arkadian Stymphalos are overrun with man-eating birds. King Eurystheus orders you to slay these demons.” A cheer went up from the remaining guests.
“Hercules! Son of Zeus! A new labor for Hercules!”
Pete cheered faintly with the rest, but his heart was descending rapidly. It thumped almost audibly into his sandals. Man-eating birds? Vultures? Eagles? Whatever they were, Hercules would have to obey the king—or else suffer unpleasant consequences. And, in the latter contingency, Pete himself would provide fodder for the man-eating horses.
“I always knew horses would ruin me,” Mr. Manx moaned. “But not like this!”
However, two days later, Pete and Hercules marshaled the group of cowhands and rod
e toward the land of Arcady. A skeleton crew was left to take care of the ranch and the dudes; the taxicab business could take care of itself. But most of the punchers were with Pete and, Bigpig, cantering on with lariats looped at their odd-looking saddles, armed with spears and short swords instead of six-guns.
The manufacture of a pistol was beyond Pete’s capabilities, though he was already making up a stock of fireworks for the next big rodeo.
“Nessus was behind this,” Pete informed Hercules, who was writhing uncomfortably in the lion skin. “Stop scratching, will you?”
“Gosh—”
“Shut up, Nessus put the king up to setting you after these man-eating birds.”
“Well, anyhow we know what they are,” said Bigpig.
“Yeah. Somebody who’d seen ’em described ’em to me. Ostriches, that’s what. How they got into this part of the country I dunno, but they did.”
“How do you kill an ostrich, Pete?” For answer Mr. Manx grinned and patted the lariat at his saddle-horn . . .
It made a good story after they got back from Arkadian Stymphalos, after having fulfilled their errand. Centuries later the same story would be famous as one of Hercules’ Twelve Labors; it would be written that the hero killed the birds one by one with his unerring arrows.
The actual incident was somewhat different. For one thing, Hercules played no part in it. He ran into a field of goldenrod and was incapacitated for several days. Pete and the punchers galloped after the ostriches, lassoed them, and killed the giant birds with their sharp blades. Thereafter, for a short time, Pete’s taxi-drivers sold their customers ostrich-plumes at extremely exorbitant prices.
“Buy a feather for your girl friend’s hair, buddy?” went the cry. And more money went into Pete’s pockets, to the fury of Nessus and the king, whose plots once more had rebounded.
“What I can’t figure out,” Pete said bitterly as he sat on the corral and watched Hercules wash his lion skin,” is why you should be allergic to golden-rod now. You’re not Bigpig. At least you haven’t got his body. Your body belongs to Hercules.”
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