Darius is gripping a wireless phone, one of two phones in colony homes; the other is in the home of preacher Sam Hofer. On the other end of the line is a man from Texas who has called several times, persistently seeking to join the colony. It's rare for an outsider to become a member; Hutterites don't encourage converts. "You're wastin' your time," Darius says gruffly into the phone. "It's hard enough if you're born a Hutterite. I got guys breakin' the rules all the time. We don't do it and that's that. There don't need to be any 'How come?'"

"How come?" does not apply to the Hutterite world. There's little place here for individualism in dress, thought, or other personal rights most Americans treasure. The colony owns all assets, so there's no private property, no personal bank accounts, few personal belongings—and little privacy. On the other hand, everyone is clothed, fed, and given a sense of belonging.

The Hutterites are one of the oldest communal groups in North America today. Rather than losing young people, their population is growing. Since I first came to Surprise Creek, it has grown from about 50 to 125 members. Now it's branching out. A new colony, Prairie Elk, is being established about 300 miles away in northeastern Montana. Eventually, decisions will have to be made as to who stays and who packs up to start fresh at Prairie Elk.

Darius is proud of the new place—7,000 acres along the south side of the Missouri River. The colony paid 3.2 million dollars for the land, and he tells me the water rights alone are probably worth the investment. He seems more relaxed when I see him at Prairie Elk. When I first met him, he was a farmer. Then, when the old boss at Surprise Creek died in 1994, Darius was voted in to replace him. It's not an easy job. He's the enforcer of many rules and the overseer of colony debts. Every morning he sits in his office just off the kitchen, paying bills, assigning jobs to the men, and managing colony affairs. Sometimes the pressure shows, and I wonder if he'd have been happier staying a colony farmer.

It's late afternoon, and I've fed, watered, and crated my pup in the grass behind the Walter house. I'm surrounded by some of the smallest kids in the colony, boys in homemade caps and jackets, girls in long dresses and the head scarves that cover their braided hair. The little kids address me by my full name when they have a question, and they usually have many.