Tom Swift and His Great Searchlight Part 23

"I--I--don't hit me!" whined Shafton.

"Hit you! I'm not going to hit you!" exclaimed Mr. Whitford, "but I'm going to search you, and then I'm going to wire for one of my men to take you in custody."

"I--I didn't do anything!"

"You didn't; eh? Well, we'll see what the courts think of giving wrong information to Uncle Sam with the intent to aid criminals.

Let's see what he's got in his pockets."

The spy did not have much, but at a sight of one piece of paper Mr.

Whitford uttered a cry of surprise.

"Ha! This is worth something!" he exclaimed. "It may be stale news, and it may be something for the future, but it's worth trying. I wonder I didn't think of that before."

"What is it?" asked Tom.

For answer the custom officer held out a sc.r.a.p of paper on which was written one word.

ST. REGIS.

"What does it mean," asked Ned, who, with Mr. Damon, had entered the motor room, and stood curiously regarding the scene.

"Bless my napkin ring!" said the odd man. "That's the name of a hotel. Do you suppose the smugglers are stopping there?"

"Hardly," replied Mr. Whitford with a smile. "But St. Regis is the name of an Indian reservation in the upper part of New York state, right on the border, and in the corner where the St. Lawrence and the imaginary dividing line between New York and Canada join. I begin to see things now. The smugglers have been flying over the Indian Reservation, and that's why they have escaped us so far. We never thought of that spot. Tom, I believe we're on the right track at last! Shafton was probably given this to inform him where the next trick would be turned, so he could get us as far away as possible, or, maybe prevent us leaving at all."

An involuntary start on the part of the prisoner seemed to confirm this, but he kept silent.

"Of course," went on Mr. Whitford, "they may have already flown over the St. Regis reservation, and this may be an old tip, but it's worth following up."

"Why don't you ask him?" Tom wanted to know, as he nodded toward Shafton.

"He wouldn't tell the truth. I'll put him where he can't get away to warn his confederates, and then we'll go to the reservation. And to think that my man trusted him!"

Mr. Whitford was soon in communication with his headquarters by means of the wireless apparatus on Tom's airs.h.i.+p, and a little later two custom officers arrived, with an extra horse on which they were to take their prisoner back.

"And now we'll try our luck once more," said Mr. Whitford as his men left with Shafton securely bound. "Can you make the reservation in good time, Tom? It's quite a distance," and he pointed it out on the map.

"Oh, I'll do it," promised the young inventor, as he sent his powerful craft aloft in the darkness. Then, with her nose pointed in the right direction, the Falcon beat her way forward through the night, flying silently, with the great searchlight ready for instant use.

In comparatively short time, though it was rather late at night, they reached the St. Lawrence, and then it was an easy matter to drop down into the midst of the reservation grounds. Though the redmen, whom the state thus quartered by themselves, had all retired, they swarmed out of their cabins as the powerful light flashed back and forth.

"We want to question some of the head men of the tribe," said Mr.

Whitford. "I know some of them, for on several occasions I've had to come here to look into rumors that tobacco and liquor and other contraband goods dear to the Indian heart were smuggled into the reservation against the law. I never caught any of them at it though."

With guttural exclamations, and many grunts of surprise, the redmen gathered around the big airs.h.i.+p. It was too much even for their usual reserve, and they jabbered among themselves.

"How Big Foot!" greeted the custom officer, to one Indian who had an extremely large left foot. "How!"

"How!" responded the Indian, with a grunt.

"Plenty much fine air-bird; eh?" and the agent waved his hand toward the Falcon.

"Yep. Plenty much big."

"Big Foot never see bird like this; eh?"

"Oh sure. Big Foot see before many times. Huh!"

"What! Has he seen this before?" asked Tom.

"No. Wait a minute," cautioned Mr. Whitford. "I'm on the track of something. Big Foot see air-bird like this?" he questioned.

"Sure. Fly over Indians' land many times. Not same as him," and he nodded toward Tom's s.h.i.+p, "but plenty much like. Make heap noise.

Come down once--break wheel mebby. Indians help fix. Indians get firewater. You got firewater in your air-bird?"

"No firewater, but maybe we've got some tobacco, if you tell us what we want to know, Big Foot. And so you've seen air-birds flying around here before?"

"Sure, Heap times. We all see," and he waved his hand to indicate the redmen gathered around him.

There came grunts of confirmation.

"We're getting there!" exclaimed Mr. Whitford to Tom. "We're on the right track now. Which way air-birds come, Big Foot?"

"Over there," and he pointed toward Canada.

"Which way go?"

"Over there," and he pointed toward the east, in the direction of Shopton, as much as anywhere.

"That's what we want to know. Tom, we'll just hang around here for a while, until one of the smugglers' airs.h.i.+ps pa.s.s over head. I believe one is due to-night, and that's why Shafton had that paper.

It was sent to him to tip him off. He was sneaking up, trying to put your airs.h.i.+p out of commission when Koku caught him. These Indians have used their eyes to good advantage. I think we're on the trail at last."

"Baccy for Big Foot?" asked the redman.

"Yes, plenty of it. Tom, give them some of Koku's, will you? I'll settle with you later," for the giant had formed a liking for the weed, and Tom did not have the heart to stop him smoking a pipe once in a while. With his usual prodigality, the giant had brought along a big supply, and some of this was soon distributed among the Indians, who grunted their thanks.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE PURSUIT

"What plan have you in mind?" asked Tom of Mr. Whitford, when some of the Indians had gone back to their shanties, leaving a few staring curiously at the airs.h.i.+p, as she rested on the ground, bathed in the glow of her electric lights.

"Well, I think the best thing we can do is just to stay right here, Tom; all night if need be. As Big Foot says, there have been airs.h.i.+ps pa.s.sing overhead at frequent intervals. Of course that is not saying that they were the smugglers, but I don't see who else they could be. There's no meet going on, and no continental race.

They must be the smugglers."