Margaret Russ

Margaret Russ All Picture's Credit Goes To Respected Owners.

Around 1906, a man known as Old White Man of the Crow Nation sat for a photograph that would one day become a rare and h...
10/31/2025

Around 1906, a man known as Old White Man of the Crow Nation sat for a photograph that would one day become a rare and haunting glimpse into a fading era. Born around 1873 and married to Steals On Camp, Old White Man belonged to a generation that had witnessed the sweeping changes that forever altered life on the Plains. His portrait, captured by Fred E. Miller, carries the quiet strength of a people whose traditions endured even as the world around them transformed.

Fred E. Miller, the man behind the lens, was more than an observer—he had been adopted into the Crow Tribe, living among them and documenting their way of life with sincerity and respect. Though his photographs revealed a world of resilience and beauty, his attempts to share them with the wider world met only silence. Miller eventually took government posts on the Crow Reservation, his striking glass negatives stored away, unseen and unappreciated for nearly eighty years.

It wasn’t until 1985, with the release of *Fred E. Miller: Photographer of the Crows*, that his extraordinary work was finally recognized for what it was—a priceless visual record of a proud nation at a pivotal moment in history. Today, Old White Man’s portrait stands as both art and testament: a face from the past that still speaks to us, bridging the distance between memory and history with quiet, enduring grace.

In the gray stillness of an English cemetery, far from the open skies of the Great Plains, a Sioux chief named Long Wolf...
10/31/2025

In the gray stillness of an English cemetery, far from the open skies of the Great Plains, a Sioux chief named Long Wolf lay forgotten for more than a century. He had journeyed to London in 1892 as part of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, a living symbol of a fading frontier, only to die there of pneumonia at 59. His body was buried in a crowded London graveyard—his spirit, it seemed, stranded on foreign soil. But fate had other plans. Nearly a hundred years later, an unlikely hero would hear his silent call and set in motion a story that would bridge two worlds.

Elizabeth Knight, an ordinary homemaker from the quiet English village of Bromsgrove, stumbled upon Long Wolf’s story in a tattered old book she bought at a market in 1991. The passage describing a “neglected grave under a poplar tree” stirred something deep within her—a sense of injustice and compassion that refused to rest. Without money, fame, or connections, Knight began to write letters, dig through archives, and contact officials across continents. What started as curiosity turned into a mission: to bring Long Wolf home. Her determination sparked attention from historians, Native advocates, and even descendants of the chief himself.

After years of relentless effort, the impossible became reality. In 1997, Long Wolf’s remains were finally returned to South Dakota, where his people waited to welcome him home. As drums echoed across the plains and his descendants sang songs of return, a century-old wish was fulfilled—thanks to one English woman’s quiet defiance of indifference. Elizabeth Knight had never met Long Wolf, yet her compassion gave him what history had denied: peace, dignity, and a journey’s end beneath the same sky where he was born.

Long before the United States existed, the Choctaw people were already thriving in the lush woodlands of what is now Mis...
10/31/2025

Long before the United States existed, the Choctaw people were already thriving in the lush woodlands of what is now Mississippi, their origins rooted in the sacred earth mound of Nanih Waiya—a place they called their mother mound. When Europeans first recorded them in the 1600s, the Choctaw were a powerful, organized society, descended from the great Mississippian mound builders who had left behind vast ceremonial centers and intricate trade networks. As French, English, and Spanish explorers pressed into their homeland, the Choctaw skillfully navigated between empires, forging and breaking alliances as needed to survive. They were diplomats as much as warriors, maintaining their identity through centuries of upheaval.

When the United States emerged, the Choctaw chose cooperation over conflict, fighting alongside American forces during the Revolution, the War of 1812, and the Battle of New Orleans. Yet peace brought no mercy. Through nine treaties, the U.S. government stripped away Choctaw lands piece by piece until the devastating Indian Removal of the 1830s forced most of the nation westward along what became known as one of the earliest Trails of Tears. Still, some Choctaw refused to leave their ancestral lands. Under Article 14 of the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek, they became some of the first Native Americans to hold U.S. citizenship, clinging fiercely to home and heritage even as their nation was divided in two.

But the Choctaw spirit refused to fade. During the Civil War they fought, divided yet proud, and in World War I, their soldiers astonished the world as the first code talkers, using their language to send secret messages that the enemy could not decipher. Though their tribal governments were dismantled by federal law in the late 1800s, they rose again in the 20th century, reclaiming recognition and rebuilding self-governance. Today, the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians, and the Jena Band stand as living proof of endurance—a people whose story winds through centuries of challenge and change, yet always leads back to Nanih Waiya, where it all began.

In the spring of 1877, the Northern Plains were scarred by the echoes of war. Sitting Bull, leader of the Hunkpapa Lakot...
10/25/2025

In the spring of 1877, the Northern Plains were scarred by the echoes of war. Sitting Bull, leader of the Hunkpapa Lakota, stood at a crossroads. After years of resistance and victory at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, the weight of pursuit from the U.S. Army had grown unbearable. Rather than surrender, Sitting Bull made a fateful choice — to lead his people away from their ancestral lands and across the northern border into Canada, a place the Lakota called *the Grandmother’s Country*, in honor of Queen Victoria.

The journey was long and grueling. Hundreds of men, women, and children traveled with what little they could carry, their horses thin and weary, their spirits tested by hunger and exile. But as they crossed into Canada, they found a fragile peace. The land was harsh but untouched by American soldiers, and the Lakota lived freely again under the wide northern sky. Sitting Bull met with Canadian officials, hoping to secure a permanent home for his people, but even the Grandmother’s Country could not promise what the old ways once did — buffalo were vanishing, and survival grew harder with each passing season.

For four years, Sitting Bull and his band held onto that fleeting refuge, clinging to independence as the world around them shifted. When hunger finally drove them back across the border, it was with heavy hearts and the quiet knowledge that the life they had fought to protect was slipping into memory. Yet their journey into Canada became legend — a final act of defiance, courage, and dignity from a leader who refused to bow, even in exile.

Around 1905, on the rolling plains near Ponca City, Oklahoma, the air crackled with excitement as the Miller Brothers’ 1...
10/24/2025

Around 1905, on the rolling plains near Ponca City, Oklahoma, the air crackled with excitement as the Miller Brothers’ 101 Ranch Wild West Show prepared to perform. Among the riders and ropers, a proud group of Ponca men took their place — their presence both powerful and deeply symbolic. Dressed in traditional regalia adorned with feathers, beadwork, and pride, they brought to life the spirit of their people, even as the world around them was rapidly changing.

The 101 Ranch was a spectacle of its time — a mix of theater, history, and illusion that toured the country, thrilling crowds with reenactments of frontier life. For the Ponca men, participation was more than performance. It was a statement of endurance, a way to preserve their identity and traditions in a nation eager to turn them into entertainment. Beneath the showmanship, they carried with them the dignity of their ancestors — warriors, hunters, and leaders whose stories could not be tamed by applause or stage lights.

In the dust and glare of the arena, as horses thundered and the crowd cheered, the Ponca men stood tall — living symbols of a heritage too strong to vanish. Long after the tents were packed and the show moved on, their image remained: proud figures caught between two worlds, keeping their culture alive beneath the bright banners of the Wild West.

In 1938, beneath the vast blue skies of Arizona, the Navajo Fair near Window Rock pulsed with life — a celebration of tr...
10/24/2025

In 1938, beneath the vast blue skies of Arizona, the Navajo Fair near Window Rock pulsed with life — a celebration of tradition, pride, and enduring spirit. Among the woven blankets, turquoise jewelry, and scent of wood smoke, a small group gathered for a photograph: a trio of Navajo men and women standing proudly beside a visitor from the Zuni Pueblo, who stood at the center. Their faces carried the calm strength of generations rooted in the desert, the kind of quiet dignity born from a deep connection to the land.

The fairgrounds buzzed with the sounds of drums, laughter, and song. Horses stamped and snorted nearby as artisans displayed their intricate weavings and silverwork beneath the warm Arizona sun. For a few days each year, the fair became a living heartbeat of Navajo life — a place where stories were traded as easily as smiles, and where neighboring nations like the Zuni came together in friendship and respect.

This single photograph captures far more than a fair — it freezes a moment of kinship and cultural pride on the edge of a changing world. Long before highways and cities carved through the desert, there stood the people, side by side, preserving what mattered most: their heritage, their connection, and their enduring sense of belonging beneath the wide, eternal sky.

In 1900, photographer Gertrude Käsebier captured a hauntingly powerful portrait of Amos Two Bulls, a Sioux man who trave...
10/24/2025

In 1900, photographer Gertrude Käsebier captured a hauntingly powerful portrait of Amos Two Bulls, a Sioux man who traveled with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. His image, solemn and dignified, stands as more than just a photograph—it’s a window into a complex moment in American history. Draped in traditional attire, Amos Two Bulls meets the camera’s gaze with quiet strength, embodying both the pride of his heritage and the weight of a changing world.

Käsebier, known for her deep respect toward her Native subjects, sought to portray them not as curiosities of a vanishing era but as individuals of profound humanity and resilience. Through her lens, Amos Two Bulls becomes a symbol of endurance—a man caught between the enduring traditions of his people and the spectacle of Western entertainment that often misrepresented them.

Today, his portrait continues to stir reflection. It invites us to look beyond the surface of costume and performance, to see the person within—the descendant of a proud nation whose story, like so many others, still resonates through the long shadow of America’s frontier past.

In the stories told by Hollywood, Native American women were often shown tending fires and stitching clothes while the m...
10/24/2025

In the stories told by Hollywood, Native American women were often shown tending fires and stitching clothes while the men rode off to war. But the real history tells a far different—and far more powerful—story. Among the tribes of the Great Plains, there were women who fought, rode, and led with the same courage and skill as any man. These were the warrior women, fierce defenders of their people, their names whispered in songs and legends that defied time.

One of the most celebrated among them was Buffalo Calf Road Woman of the Northern Cheyenne. She rode into battle not as a bystander, but as a hero. At the Battle of the Rosebud in 1876, she reportedly charged into gunfire to rescue her wounded brother, an act of bravery that rallied her people to victory. Days later, she fought again—this time at the Battle of Little Bighorn. According to Cheyenne oral tradition, it was Buffalo Calf Road Woman herself who struck the final, fatal blow against General George Custer.

Her story, like so many others, was buried beneath the myths written by others. But the truth endures: women like Buffalo Calf Road Woman were not merely witnesses to history—they were its makers. They fought for their land, their families, and their freedom, proving that courage knows no gender and that heroism often rides under a name the textbooks forgot.

John (Fire) Lame Deer, the Lakota holy man and storyteller, spoke these words not in anger, but in a voice that cut thro...
10/21/2025

John (Fire) Lame Deer, the Lakota holy man and storyteller, spoke these words not in anger, but in a voice that cut through irony with the precision of truth. He looked back on a world that had been branded “uncivilized” by outsiders and revealed, with quiet brilliance, how that very lack of so-called civilization had once made his people deeply human. In the time before fences, locks, and laws written by strangers, there had been no thieves, no prisons, no men made less by poverty or judged by wealth. Kindness and community were their only currencies, and a person’s worth was measured not by what he owned, but by what he gave.

His words sting with both humor and sorrow. He paints the picture of a society that functioned without the mechanisms we now take for granted—without lawyers or politicians, without property disputes or deceit disguised as progress. What the Lakota lacked in material “advancement,” they made up for in balance and belonging. Their civilization was unwritten but deeply understood, guided not by institutions, but by respect—for the earth, for one another, and for the unseen forces that bound all life together.

When Lame Deer says they “were really in bad shape before the white men arrived,” his irony strikes hard. It is a lament wrapped in wit, a mirror held up to the arrogance of modernity. In his words lives a haunting reminder: that in gaining civilization, something sacred was lost. A people once free of walls and money, once rich in spirit and community, found themselves measured instead by the very things they had never needed to live well.

In 1919, on the Gila River Reservation in Arizona, Susie Osif stood in the quiet heart of Alkali Village, cradling her g...
10/20/2025

In 1919, on the Gila River Reservation in Arizona, Susie Osif stood in the quiet heart of Alkali Village, cradling her great-nephew in her arms. The desert sun fell softly across them, outlining the folds of her traditional dress and the gentle curve of the baby’s cheek. Her gaze was calm and unwavering, filled with the kind of strength that only comes from a lifetime rooted in the rhythms of the land. Around them, the dry earth, mesquite trees, and distant hills told the story of the Pima people—farmers, river keepers, and survivors of the desert’s harsh grace.

The child she held was the promise of continuity, the next heartbeat in a lineage that had weathered centuries of change. In that simple act of holding him close, there was a powerful quiet—an unspoken vow that traditions, stories, and language would endure through him. The photograph caught more than a family moment; it preserved the pulse of a culture carried from one generation to the next, in the safety of a grandmother’s arms.

Behind Susie and the child, Alkali Village seemed to rest in stillness, its adobe homes blending with the earth as though they had grown from it. The camera could not capture the scent of the warm dust or the sound of the wind through the creosote, but it caught something deeper: the enduring spirit of the Pima people—gentle, steadfast, and eternal beneath the vast Arizona sky.

In 1881, at Fort Keogh, Montana, the lens of photographer L.A. Huffman captured a moment of quiet power—a Crow warrior k...
10/20/2025

In 1881, at Fort Keogh, Montana, the lens of photographer L.A. Huffman captured a moment of quiet power—a Crow warrior known as Sits Down Spotted standing tall against the raw frontier. His presence was commanding, yet calm, his eyes steady with the confidence of a man who had lived through both the old world of the Plains and the dawning new one that sought to change it. Every detail—the fall of his braids, the beadwork across his chest, the weathered lines of his face—spoke of strength forged in struggle and pride born from a warrior’s life.

Behind him, the Montana sky stretched vast and unbroken, the same sky his ancestors had followed across the plains when the buffalo roamed in countless herds. But by 1881, that world was fading. The old trails were closing, the cavalry forts rising, and the echoes of battle still lingered in the wind. Sits Down Spotted stood as a living bridge between eras—part of a people forced to adapt, yet refusing to be erased.

Huffman’s photograph freezes that balance forever: the dignity of resistance, the poise of a man who knew who he was even as the ground beneath him shifted. In his gaze, one can almost feel the heartbeat of the Crow Nation—resilient, proud, and enduring beneath the relentless march of time.

Around 1900, in the ancient village of Oraibi Pueblo, Arizona, a young Hopi girl stood quietly before the camera of phot...
10/20/2025

Around 1900, in the ancient village of Oraibi Pueblo, Arizona, a young Hopi girl stood quietly before the camera of photographer Frederick Monsen. In her hands, she held a finely woven plaque—a symbol of artistry passed from mother to daughter through countless generations. The desert sun caught the edges of the coiled basket, glinting off its intricate patterns of dyed yucca and willow. Her expression was calm, steady, and older than her years, as though she carried within her the spirit of her ancestors and the silent wisdom of the mesas that surrounded her home.

Behind her, the adobe walls of Oraibi whispered of centuries of life perched high on the rocky mesas, where the Hopi people had watched the sun rise and set over the same red horizon since time immemorial. The photograph captured more than just a child with a craft—it preserved a living heritage, a quiet moment of identity in an era of great change. Each thread of the plaque told a story: of rain prayed for, of harvests gathered, of community woven tightly together like the fibers beneath her fingers.

In Monsen’s image, the girl’s stillness feels timeless. She stands as both a keeper and a bridge—between childhood and womanhood, between past and future. The plaque she holds is not merely an object, but a circle of continuity, echoing the enduring rhythm of Hopi life under the endless Arizona sky.

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