A shot rang out in the woods and they all froze in what they were doing, the talk and laughter cut off.

Dan and Greg ran back and fetched the pistol and the shotgun and stood looking around, wary and silent. Angie appeared in the door of her caravan, with the.22 rifle in her hands.

'For heaven's sake,' Sally cried. 'It's somebody hunting. What are we all scared of?'

They all relaxed a little. Sally was obviously right and the startling report became natural in retrospect.

'Lot of townies, aren't we?' Rosemary laughed, a little nervously.

Dan said: 'All the same, we might as well start as we mean to go on. Weapons handy but out of sight – and one of us always close to them. Angie, are you a good shot?'

'Very good,' Angie told him calmly, patting her telescopic sight.

'Right – stay in your caravan; you're our armed guard for the first stint. And at night, we'll always have one sentry awake – two hours each, on a roster.'

Nobody argued. Moira felt her stomach tighten and realized it was only partly fear; there was an element of excitement in it -an atavistic tingling of the nerves. This is no holiday, this is the tribe and the tribe must survive – we must learn the ways

More cautiously, they all went back to work – except for Angie, shadowed and watchful in her caravan. After a while they began talking again, in low voices.

'Listen!' Greg snapped suddenly.

They all heard the footsteps for a second or two before the young man stepped out of the forest edge. He had a double-barrelled twelve-bore, broken open, in the crook of his arm and he carried the body of a grey squirrel in his other hand.

'Hullo!' he called cheerfully, and came towards them.

Nobody spoke for a moment as he approached. He looked from one to the other, smiled a little shyly, and laid the twelve-bore on the trestle table they had set up in the middle of the laager. The gesture was so deliberately peaceful that it broke the spell.

'Hullo,' Dan said. 'Sorry if we seemed nervous. Are you Forestry?'

'That's right. My name's Peter O'Malley. Don't apologize – a lot of people are feeling a bit nervous at the moment.'

'We've just got a kettle boiling,' Moira said. 'Would you like some tea or coffee? We're making both… Or there's a can of beer.'

'Coffee'd be fine, if there's some going.'

He looked in his middle twenties, lean and black-bearded, about a metre seventy-five tall; his jeans, tee-shirt, bush-jacket and soft boots suited his unself-conscious Celtic good looks. More of a young poet than a forestry worker, Moira thought, and then wondered why she had thought of it as a contradiction.

'Why did you shoot that squirrel?' Eileen asked unexpectedly and there was an edge to her voice that made Moira wonder.

'My job, I'm afraid, or part of it,' Peter O'Malley told her. 'I'm not responsible for the timber, directly, though I keep my eyes open for anything wrong, of course, just like the others… No, I work for the Forestry Commission but my job's ecology. Animal population census, protecting rare species, watching for disease and so on. Culling, where necessary. Like this little chap. There's been a bit of a population explosion of grey squirrels in Dyfnant Forest this year and they're destructive buggers.'

'Like man,' Eileen said.

'Yes, like man. But you can try to teach man, or even put him in jail or fine him if he won't learn. You can't with grey squirrels, can you?' He flashed his shy attractive smile at her.

Eileen looked a little ashamed of herself and said: 'Sorry, I was rude. I hate killing things, that's all.'

‘Do you think I don't? But if protecting the other species means I've got to cut my grey squirrel population by thirty per cent, then I do it – and if it makes you feel any better, I never wound 'em, I shoot 'em dead, first time.'

'Actually, we're just cooking up lunch,' Moira interrupted to save both of them further embarrassment. 'Why don't you join us? After all, it's your forest.'

Peter grinned his thanks. 'You know, I think I'll take you up on that. I get tired of cooking for myself.'

'And of your own company? It must be lonely up here sometimes.'

'Oh, I don't mind that. But yes, it's nice to see people now and again. Often I don't for a couple of weeks or more at a time.'

'Not even your own colleagues?' Dan asked.

'Not around here much, this summer. There's no planting or felling going on in this section right now. Nearest is two, three kilometres away – and even that's finished for the year. They're felling still below New Dyfnant.'

'Is that out of your territory?'

'Oh, no – I cover the whole forest. But I base myself in one section each year, study that intensively and just keep an eye on the rest. I've got my trailer about a kilometre away, back there off the logging road you came up. I'm your nearest neighbour.' Again the smile. 'In fact, your only neighbour, till the village.'

Dan asked 'Is it all right if we camp here?' He asked it naturally, but Moira knew his question was less casual than he made it sound.

'Sure, as far as I'm concerned. People do sometimes, though you're the only ones this summer. Just don't light a fire within about fifty metres of the trees or at all if there's much of a wind. And never leave it unattended.'

'We'll be disciplined, I promise you.'

Peter hesitated, and then asked: 'How long are you here for?'

'Oh… we hadn't decided. A while, anyway.'

The young ecologist looked from face to face, shrewdly. 'Even up here, I listen to the news. I've been kind of expecting someone like you.'

'Like us?'

'Shall we say – people who can guess which way things are going?… Oh, don't worry. I…" He seemed shy again. 'Well, ecologists don't like mass hysteria. And I'm constitutionally inclined to mind my own business…

Look, if anyone does come up here – and once in a blue moon they do – tell ' em Peter O'Malley said you could camp here. I'm in well with my boss so you'll be all right.'

'You're a pal,' Dan told him, and Moira, on an impulse, leaned over and gave him a quick hug.

Peter cleared his throat awkwardly but looked pleased. 'Got to earn my lunch, haven't I?'

They all laughed and got on with preparing it.

Later, when he was briefly alone with Dan, Peter said: ‘I may be talking out of turn and I'm not asking questions – but if things do break down… That meadow there and the stream… Well, the stream's full of trout – and the meadow's lovely soil. Should grow vegetables well.'

Dan was silent for a moment. 'We do happen to be well-stocked up with seeds – just in case, you know. And we've got rods and tackle…… The seeds can wait for a bit, while we see how the cat jumps. But we might as well get the rods out. I'm very fond of trout.'

'Are your guns licensed?'

'What guns?'

Peter just grinned. 'Forget I asked. But there's plenty of rabbit… Only one thing – there's a pair of peregrine falcon nesting over the cliff up there. It's their second season and there haven't been peregrine in Dyfnant Forest since 1987. Disturb them, and I'll be after your scalp, in person.'

It was Dan's turn to grin. 'Show me exactly where and we'll put their patch out of bounds. If any of our lot go near them, I'll have their scalps – never mind you.'

'Loner I may be,' Peter said. 'But people like you I can do with as neighbours. Look after those seeds, won't you?'

They all slept for two or three hours during the afternoon, except for Angie and Eileen, who had spent the night before in their own bunks and did not need extra rest.

When they got up again, they found Angie and Eileen had been collecting firewood, of which there was plenty lying around without any necessity of cutting. The weather was very warm for August but they lit a fire in the evening, well clear of the trees. Greg took a spade and stripped a couple of square metres of topsoil off the rock to make a hearth-pit, edging it with stones. There they cooked their evening meal. They had, between them, a good stock of gas cylinders for their camp cookers and planned to buy more. However it would obviously be wise to hoard these as much as possible for quick boiling of water and bad-weather cooking, so they agreed that camp-fire cooking would be the general rule. Tonight's meal was, deliciously, grilled trout. Dan and Rosemary were both good fly-fishers and two of their assortment of rods were suitable, so at about five o'clock they had taken them to the stream and quickly proved Peter right about it; by half past six they had the necessary eight fish – 'though I doubt if we'll be so lucky when they get wise to us,' Dan said. 'They must have been undisturbed since God knows when.' Rosemary had caught five of the eight and was understandably cocky.