John Ford tries to repair some of his one-note portrayals of Native Americans in his last production giving them a sympathetic role this time, but the film is long like a funeral march as if it was meant to drag for his final western. The anti-climatic ending also don't help. A humorous intermission segment is so good it is worth a look on it's own.
A very mass-cult apology for very mass-cult sins, so a cynic can easily cry "too little, too late"—Ricardo Montalbon doesn't do shit to correct a century of cowboys-vs.-indians fantasies, particularly not when Ford is so easily distracted by more Wyatt Earp. Yet there is something appealingly serene in his optimistic, quasi-historical image of America. What was that Wilco line? "My lies are always wishes"?