“You damn——!” and he leveled an accusing finger at Larson.
“Jim!” cried Larson, “what’s wrong?” Larson was greatly shocked and distressed over the condition of his friend, and he overlooked, if he heard, the insult hurled at him.
“So that was what you wanted?” McKay snarled.
“My God, Jim, what is it?”
“You may have beaten me, but you will never, never get her!” And a stream of fire leapt from McKay’s gun and Larson dropped to the floor, uttering but one word—“Jim!”
The weapon dropped from McKay’s limp hand, and his face was ashen as he gazed, speechlessly, at the bleeding and lifeless body of his best friend on earth.
He slowly turned away, and later surrendered himself to the authorities.
The tragic affair caused a great deal of comment. Some three weeks after the murder the case was brought to trial and attracted widespread interest. The dingy West Side courtroom was crowded to capacity. Friends, acquaintances, business men, curiosity seekers, fought for seats.
Considerable difficulty was encountered in the selection of a jury. The popularity of the murdered man, as well as the defendant, made it hard to find an unbiased yet capable juryman.
After that, however, the trial was brief, the end coming with almost startling suddenness. The state’s case was plain and simple: The evidence was overwhelmingly against McKay, and the situation was not improved by his refusal to offer any defense.