Copied review from Kirkus:
"KIRKUS REVIEW
"The author of Old Jules turns again to biography, this time in the saga of a great Indian leader, Crazy Horse. His life encompasses the bitter period of the Sioux Wars, which culminated at Little Big Horn. Brought up on tales and legends surrounding him, she finally felt compelled to trace them to their sources, and from that long research job, this book emerges. It is a book that stands as a monument to white stupidity -- and cupidity --and mismanagement, as the author traces successive tragic mistakes, from the day when a mischance precipitated virtual massacre, to ""Custer's last fight"". Curly or the Light Haired Boy, son of a man who was virtually a mystic, was twelve at the start; he had friends among the whites, and no hatred nor bitterness against them. This is the story of how hate grew, nurtured by broken promises, cruelty, selfishness, greed, as the Oglalas and their kin were pushed hither and you as he lost one after another whom he loved. The story is told in rhythmic prose, echoing the form of Indian speech. It is not easy reading -- it is often confusing -- but, in the last analysis, it is rewarding and challenging reading."
**
Some Sandoz quotes from the forward:
"The home of my childhood was on the upper Niobrara River, the Running Water of the old-timers, at the edge of the region they called the Indian Country ... close ... in those open days, to the great Sioux reservations of South Dakota, to Fort Robinson and the Black Hills--the final resting places of refuge for many of the old buffalo-hunting Indians, the old traders, trappers, and general frontiersmen who looked with contempt upon the coming of the barbed wire and the walking plow. Such men, with their heroic times all in the past, are often great story-tellers, and these my father, Old Jules, drew to him as a curl of smoke rising above a clump of trees would once have drawn them, or the small of coffee boiling at sundown."
"So, around our kitchen table or perhaps at the evening fires of the Sioux often camped across the road from our house, I heard these old-timers tell many and wonderful stories ...
"As I listened to these stories it seemed that through them, like a painted strip of rawhide in a braided rope, ran the name of one who was a boy among the Oglalas the day the chief of his people was shot down. He must have been twelve then, quiet, serious, very light-skinned for an Indian, with hair so soft and pale that was called Curly or the Light-Haired Boy ... twenty-three years later, he was known as the greatest ... his name, Crazy Horse, was one to frighten the children of the whites crowding into his country, and even the boldest warriors of his Indian enemies ..."
" ... had little interest in the things that delight most of his brother Sioux ... the name by which he was often known, Our Strange Man ...
" ... watched him walk in silence through his village in peacetime, every face more alive for his passing."