Logan Trilogy by William F Nolan, George Clayton Johnson

ride for the Gun," he told her. "I'll catch up with you"
    Jess limped to the door, moved through it.
    A thrum of metal. She was gone.
    Logan waited to give Jess a proper start, then backed out slowly, holding Graygirl in front of him.
    With vicious force, he heaved her back through the batwing door into the midst of the gypsies, spilling
    them.
    Outside, he vaulted into the saddle of the nearest devilstick and kicked the release stud. The hovercraft flamed into motion.
    He knew they'd be after him. Trees whiplashed at him as he skimmed their top branches. He'd stay as close to the ground as possible, head into the brush country and try to shake the pursuit before doubling back for Jess.
    As a boy, Logan had loved devilsticks. But this brute took some getting used to. Its power thrust was massive and tricky, and a delicate touch was needed, to keep upright. Sudden throttle bursts were dangerous, threatening to pitch him from the saddle. Yet his confidence grew with each passing mile.
    Learning to feel the machine he rode, beginning to understand its quick-working habits, Logan felt real exhilaration as he jetted over the country. His wounds were healed and his hands were free.
    Let the gypsies come!
    Logan saw them as he topped a high rock. Six of them, expertly riding his wake. He cut his vehicle sharply down into a baked creek bed, hugging ground, his jet flame searing the dry dust.
    He had taken Graygirl's stick, and it was fast. Faster, by far, than most of the others. Gradually they fell back. And back. And were lost behind him.
    Logan headed for Jess.
    Yet one rider clung to him, matching his speed, gaining with each twist and fold of land. The afternoon sun rayed on moving jewels.
    Rutago.
    Logan gave his craft full throttle, but the gypsy continued to gain, mile by mile.
    At the entrance to the Lame Johnny, Logan spotted Jess. She was just over a mile ahead, riding in a ragged, irregular pattern, weak from loss of blood and unable to control her vehicle properly. Sheer guts had carried her this far; she could falter at any moment.
     
    Logan sped to catch her.
    Rutago charged closer, giving the wind his smile.
    The Lame Johnny was below, and Logan bounced in the saddle as the swift currents affected his power thrust. He cut to the right, using the bank, and his speed resumed. Rutago was almost upon him.
    The king was here, the man who rode the Ribbon. Logan had heard of this legendary feat. Many deestickers had tried it, tried to hug that flexible durasteel cable stretching the storm-tossed Atlantic, but only one jockey had ever ridden the Ribbon from shore to shore, through wind and wave change, cold and blind fog. Only Rutago had managed it. The king.
    Logan braced himself for attack. And was shocked.
    In a wash of jato heat Rutago sliced past him, heading for Jess.
    The gypsy raked the side of her jato housing. She wavered as smoke began seeping from her craft. It staggered downward, the girl fighting for control. Rutago circled, lazily riding air, expertly guiding his machine, playing her.
    Jess regained partial stability, and he was at her again immediately, forcing her close to the red granite walls of the ravine. Her face held terror; in another moment she'd be spilled from the saddle.
    Logan shot up to engage the gypsy, flashed by him, drawing him away from Jess in a hazardous ploy: Logan took his stick up the sheer ravine face, riding the mountain with the water boiling below them.
    Rutago could not resist the bait. He made splendid use of his fabled skill to harass Logan, dipping and slashing in at him. Logan was a boy once again, all awkwardness and uncertainty in trying to handle his first devilstick. This man who knifed at him was in cool command of the air, but when would he tire of the one-sided game?
    He'll go for Jess again unless…unless I kill him. But how?
    Logan kicked his craft around, aimed it at the gypsy. Rutago veered left; Logan veered with him, fixing his trajectory. Full throttle. A