There might be tobacco or whiskey left behind, or something with color or a shine to it.

Buddy knew well the ways of Indians.
He made for the creek, thinking at first to hide somewhere in the brush along the bank.

Then, fearing the brightening light of day and the wide space he must cross to reach the first fringe of brush, he stopped at a dugout cellar that had been built into the creek bank above high-water mark.

There was a pole-and-dirt roof, and because the dirt sifted down between the poles whenever the wind blew--which was always--the place had been crudely sealed inside with split poles overlapping one another.
The ceiling was more or less flat; the roof had a slight slope.

In the middle of the tiny attic thus formed Buddy managed to worm his body through a hole in the gable next to the creek.
He wriggled back to the end next the cabin and lay there very flat and very quiet, peeping out through a half-inch crack, too wise in the ways of silence to hold his breath until he must heave a sigh to relieve his lungs.