Luke's happiness was dimmed the next day when Mark wouldn't go with him to cut a Christmas tree but as he drove up into the hills, he felt very tranquil. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. Psalm 121 had been Margaret's favorite psalm and Luke felt very close to his wife as he searched for a tree that he knew she would have approved of. When he saw a perfect cone of a tree standing by itself, bright green needles shining in the sun, he smiled. This was the one.
Luke hopped off the sledge and his foot came down in a hole, throwing him off balance so that he tumbled forward and landed face down in the snow. It would have been a minor mishap were it not for the trap that snapped shut on his arm. The sudden pain drew a yell from him, but even in that moment he looked at the trap and was thankful it didn't have teeth. It was the kind of smooth jawed trap hunters used for fur-bearing animals so as not to spoil their pelts, and Luke set his teeth and tried to pull it open, tugging with his good hand and pressing down with his wounded arm. The jolt of pain from this effort made him light-headed and he stopped, waiting until the wave of dizziness subsided. He tried to move his fingers. They twitched painfully and he realized his arm was broken.
He fought down an overpowering impulse to thrash around, grimly aware that his only hope of survival lay in remaining calm. Even if he could stand the pain, his broken arm simply could not provide enough leverage to open the trap and he looked around for a stick. The ground was as smooth as if it had been swept. There were tools on the sledge but it was out of reach. There was a chance the trapper was in the vicinity and Luke filled his lungs and called for help, again and again until a rasp in his throat warned him that his voice was going. He rested for a time and tried calling again, but no one came and the sun went down, leaving behind it a bitter cold.