ere West of Laramie 
S OMEWHERE west of Laramie there’s a broncho- 
busting, steer-roping girl who knows what I’m talking ; 
about. She can tell what a sassy pony, that’s a cross 
between greased lightning and the place where it hits, can 
do with eleven hundred pounds of steel and action when 
he’s going high, wide and handsome. 
The truth is—the Jordan Playboy was built for her. 
