Ep 28-Mary Chamberlain Pt 2:💰High Pay, No Glory🫣 & a Rollaway Saloon🍺 in Fried Onion, AZ🌵

The all-woman town council of Kanab, Utah, wasn’t just a quirky footnote in frontier history—they were a civic force with apron strings and iron wills. In this second half of their story, the ordinances keep coming, but marshals keep quitting. So the women place a help-wanted ad for a man with “spine, humor, and no fear of mothers.”

But not every tale from their tenure is quite so grounded…

We investigate the myth of the “Rollaway Saloon”—a bar-on-logs said to have dodged prohibition by rolling across the Utah-Arizona border. You’ll hear the outrageous cowboy version told by Rowland W. Rider… and the butter-churning, baby-raising truth recorded by the locals who actually lived it.

Also in this episode:

— A showdown over 12 gallons of “medicinal” liquor 🥃 

— A marshal who answers to “Marsha” 🤠 

— A fruit festival🍇🍑welcome party for the first automobile to reach the North Rim

— A young Edwin Dilworth Chamberlain explaining why Kanab watermelons grow so big🍉🤭

— And a poetic farewell to the women who governed with grit, prayer, and a rocking chair in every meeting. This is the finale of Kanab’s Petticoat Government. And you’ll never see a “women’s meeting” the same way again.

Transcript

Scene 1 — “6 Gallons down the drain”

Loafer 1 : That’s a waste of good medicine Marshal!

MARY : Marshal, go ahead. Pour it out. Right there in the red dirt.

MARSHAL: Yes Mary. I mean, Mayor Howard. Yes Ma’am. 

Loafer 1 : Did your badge come with an apron and a rolling pin?

MARSHAL: all right boys, take your remaining medicinal fire water and move along.

Loafer 3: You keep takin’ orders from them gals, and we’ll have to start callin’ you Marsha.

MARSHAL: I take orders from ladies, sure. Beats takin’ ‘em from loafers who can’t find a belt that fits.

MARY : Let the men of Kanab know: not every law comes from Salt Lake. Some come from their wives.

Loafer 3: I never thought I’d see Winston Churchill in a petticoat.

MARSHAL: Far as I know, stray dogs and stray men get treated the same in this town. What’s it gonna be, collar or holler? I been eager to try out these improvised salt-and-pepper loads on the south end of a north bound loafer. 

Loafer 1: You wouldnt dare.

Loafer 2: I think he’s bluffing.

MARSHAL: You care to find out?

NARRATOR:

Welcome back to another chapter in this epic tale. Here’s a quick recap of part one of this story:

NARRATOR:

“What began as a retaliatory prank—five women nominated for town council—turned into a two-year masterclass in governance. They fined strays, outlawed flippers, enforced a peaceful Sabbath, and were beginning to scare off marshals faster than a bar of soap at a bachelor’s camp.”

“It’s now the summer of 1912. Ordinances are passing. The town is shifting. But the chair behind the marshal’s desk? Still warm… still empty… still cursed. And yet the council presses forward.”

SCENE 2: Marshal Opening. High Pay. No Glory.

CHARLES

Ah, Luella. Back so soon? Another ordinance?

LUELLA

Only checking to see if your press is strong enough to carry the weight of the law, Mr. Townsend.

CHARLES

Weight of the law or weight of the town’s patience? Which is it this time?

LUELLA

This time, Charles, it’s the marshal we’re trying to print into existence.

CHARLES

Another one? That last brave soul barely make it to … what, two prayer meetings and a livestock impoundment?

LUELLA

Three meetings. He left on account of his brother’s funeral. Though I suspect it was just his pride that passed.

CHARLES

You realize asking for a marshal in this town—under your council—is like posting an ad for a rooster in a nunnery. No man wants to wear the badge if he can’t also wear the pants.

LUELLA

And yet none of you men seem bothered when we pass the ordinances that clean up your streets and we bear your children.

CHARLES

Touché

LUELLA

Here’s the copy. We’d like it run front page, above the fold.

CHARLES

“WANTED: One man with enough spine to serve as Marshal under a council of women. Duties include impounding livestock, enforcing Sabbath regulations, and withstanding the ridicule of your poker mates. High pay. No glory.”

LUELLA

Add: “Applicants with sense of humor preferred.”

CHARLES

You’re serious?

LUELLA

Dead serious.

CHARLES

Well, Mrs. McAllister, if you do find a man bold enough to take that job… I’d like to interview him before he vanishes into legend.

LUELLA

Good day Mr Townsend.

CHARLES:

Good day Luella. 

NARRATOR:

Seven marshals came and went in two years. But for a moment, on a dusty Tuesday in Kanab, the badge held firm. And so did the rule: This town is not open range.

Scene 3: Allow me to introduce myself…

NARRATOR:

Once those five women took office, there was no mistaking it, the petticoats meant business.

They didn’t govern from mahogany desks or council halls with brass spittoons.

They governed from parlors, kitchens, and baby-rocking chairs.

They baked bread between motions. Passed ordinances with a child on the hip.

And when one of them couldn’t leave the house…

Well, the council just met there instead.

They didn’t ask for power.

But once it landed in their laps—they didn’t squander the opportunities it provided.

They weren’t elected for their platforms.

They were chosen for a prank.

But for two whole years, they proved that an apron string could hold a town together tighter than any necktie ever did.

Now, if you’re wonderin’ what kind of woman can pass laws with a colicky baby in her arms—

Well…lemme introduce you.

First…we have Tamar Stewart Hamblin.

Teacher. Homemaker. Gave birth to a baby girl of her namesake during her term—and still never missed a vote:

We didn’t ask to govern, mind you. But once they swore us in, we didn’t waste a single prayer… or ordinance.

Some of us were mocked in our own homes—by kin, no less. But we held our heads high. We passed laws. Dressed wounds. Bore our babies AND bore the town’s burdens.

Next we have Sarah Blanche Robinson Hamblin—who went by Blanche—

She was the kind of woman who stitched curtains, raised six kids, cared for her mother-in-law, and still managed to protect the town birds and windows by outlawing slingshots.

Her motto? Anything worth doing is worth doing well. Turns out—governance included:

We met wherever we had to—parlors, kitchens, back rooms. If a baby was napping or bread was rising, we worked around it. If one of us couldn’t leave the house, well then, the meeting just came to her.

Seven marshals we went through. Seven. Some quit. Some never showed. One said he’d rather face a saloon brawl than report to a council of mothers.

Next is Ada Pratt Seegmiller.

Granddaughter of Orson Pratt. Tailor, gardener, mother of thirteen—and willing appointee. She gave birth to a son named Pratt while in office:

Well i can tell you one thing for certain, life didn’t stop just because we took office. When it got too busy midweek, we held meetings after Church on Sundays.

We kept things tidy. We kept the peace. And we kept Kanab from crumbling into a pasture for goats and gamblers.

Then there was Luella Maude Atkin McAllister.

The youngest on the council at twenty-six. She raised her husband’s boy from a previous marriage, birthed six more of her own, including Venetia who was born during her term in office—and still made time for town law:

In between nursing babies and kneading dough, we still managed to outlaw slingshots, fine stray cows, license dogs, and chase off the gamblers and drunkards. And don’t get me started on peddlers. You’d think they were allergic to permits.

Behind every ordinance was a child in the yard, a pot on the stove, and a woman who—when duty called—set down her apron and said… yes.

And finally… Mary Elizabeth Woolley Chamberlain.

Though elected as “Mary Howard,” she was already well known.

Clerk, mother, plural wife living under a borrowed name—

When difficult decisions became necessary, Mary stepped forward with confidence and kindness.

“We found an accommodating location for the Indians just outside of the town limits. This gave them access to the community and its resources, yet allowed them the space to live in their present customary manners. Which in the early days rarely included bathing or using a proper outhouse. It’s because of those differing sanitary reasons, that it was best we each had spaces in which to live our cultures. It was a difficult decision—but not one made in hatred. We didn’t always understand each other—but we did our best to live peaceably.”

"Our greatest trouble has been in fighting the liquor evil, which is a terror to our town.

"We passed a liquor ordinance which was prepared by the Municipal League of Utah, under the new liquor law passed by the last Legislature.

"A year ago now, liquor was being shipped in here on the U. S. Mail, which carries express as well, and our town was full of it. We could get no redress through the courts, so we wrote direct to the Postmater General, at Washington D.C. and explained our situation, and asked him if it was necessary for us to put up with such conditions. He answered that the matter would be investigated immediately, and in a very short time the mail contractors all along the line had strict ordors not to carry another drop of liquor from Marysvale to Kanab, so we have not had much trouble from that source, though it is still shipped in by freight and other ways. They know we are on the lookout, and they have to be pretty sly about it.

SCENE 4 - Liquor Evil

MARSHAL: Mary?…Pardon me Ms Howard… 

MARY: Yes Marshal.

MARSHAL: I’m sorry to interrupt Ma’am, we’ve confiscated some liquor from the recent freight delivery. If you have a moment, could you come look it over. 

MARY: Why of course marshal. 

MARSHAL: here it is ma’am. 

MARY: wow. That ain’t vanilla flavoring. 

MARSHAL: No Mary. Not this time. It was separated and addressed to different parties this time…12 gallons in total. The Justice of the Peace questioned the parties involved, and he finds that 6 of them was sent for medicinal purposes. He released it into their custody….this is the remaining 6 gallons. 

Loafer 1 :That’s a waste of good medicine Marshal!

MARY :“Marshal, go ahead. Pour it out. Right there in the red dirt.”

MARSHAL: Yes Mary. I mean, Mayor Howard. Yes Ma’am. 

Loafer 1 :Did your badge come with an apron and a rolling pin?

MARSHAL: all right boys, take your remaining medicinal fire water and move along.

Loafer 3: “You keep takin’ orders from them gals, and we’ll have to start callin’ you Marsha.”

MARSHAL: “I take orders from ladies, sure. Beats takin’ ‘em from loafers who can’t find a belt that fits.”

MARY:“Let the men of Kanab know: not every law comes from Salt Lake. Some come from their wives.”

Loafer 3: i never thought I’d see Winston Churchill in a petticoat.

MARSHAL: Far as I know, stray dogs and stray men get treated the same in this town. What’s it gonna be, collar or holler? 

I been eager to try out these improvised salt-and-pepper loads on the south end of a north bound loafer.

Loafer 1: You wouldnt dare.

Loafer 2: I think he’s bluffing.

MARSHAL: You care to find out?

🎙️ Scene 5 – Rollaway Saloon – Rowland W. Rider’s Version

NARRATOR : Not every tale from this era was quite so… grounded. Some stories, like stray pigs, get fatter every time they’re retold. The “legend” of the Rollaway saloon is one of them ol’ wild hog tales thats puts on a pound or two with each retelling. Here’s the gist of the fable, flawed from inception. 

It fabricated around the all-woman town council in Kanab—as they decided to dry the place up. Them gals, passed laws so tight even your cough syrup had to have a bishop’s approval.

Well, the drinking men didn’t take kindly to that. So what’d they do?

They built themselves a saloon just across the state line … and put it on logs.

RIDER :

Yessir, the whole shack sat on giant pine rollers, procured from Kaibab Mountain. And every time the lady council sent the marshal to shut it down, those fellas would hook up a team of horses and roll that saloon across the Utah-Arizona line—right out of Kanab jurisdiction. Clever devils.

Now here’s where it gets spicy.

One night, the quilting club they call a town council—they got wind the saloon was back in the state. Having enough of this foolishness. The ladies threw down their needles, lit up some torches, and rode out on horseback like a posse straight outta the book of Revelations.

MARY: let em know we’re here Luella.

Luella: Yes ma’am. My pleasure.

FRANK: What in the name of Annie Oakley is going on out here?

MARY :John Stine…I’m calling you out. 

FRANK: is you all seein this? 5 women on horseback, with guns and torches?

JOE: are we dead John? Is this hell?

MARY: If you wanna live in sin? Then roll this outhouse of debauchery all the way into Arizona. But don’t you dare bring that rot back here.”

FRANK: Oh save us baby Jesus. This is worse than hell. 

John Stine: Shhhh. Lemme do the talking…Now Mary, you ain’t being logical.

Mary: If the world were a logical place, you men would be riding side saddle.

FRANK: She got a point there Mr Stine.

John: Hush your pie hole Frank. Whose side are you on anyhows?

FRANK: Well i got a full house here waiting to throw down on Joe’s 3 of a kind.

Joe: You brung your cards outside with ya? Wait a doggone minute, how comes you know i got 3 of a kind?

FRANK: Um….lucky guess

JOE: You cheatin son of a motherless goat.

Mary: Well that opportune distraction wasn’t supposed to be so easy. Nonetheless, Blanche…give that saloon the shot of kerosine its deserving.

Blanche: All done Mary.

Mary: Time to give this establishment of ill repute the baptism of fire….Light er up ladies. 

Narrator:

It’s been said that the flaming torches of righteous indignation hit the kerosine likelightning on a cow pie—fast, loud, and hard to explain. The blazing saloon lit up the desert like Judgment Day. Whiskey bottles burst like fireworks. The drinkers & gamblers ran howling into the night like coyotes running from buckshot.

The next morning, nothin’ was left but ashes.

Now… did it really happen that way? It’s a tale so good you really wanna believe it.

The story of the ‘Rollaway Saloon’ wasn’t born in 1912—it was recorded much later in the fanciful concoctions of a cowboy storyteller named Rowland W. Rider. His recollections entertained many a captive audience around a campfire, but does this fiery tale align with the journals of those who lived it?

SCENE 6  – “The Truth Rolls In” 

NARRATOR:

As for the real story…well, let’s say the truth has a little less hell, fire, and damnation… and a lot more ditch digging and dairy cows.

Turns out, the so-called Rollaway Saloon as a structure was indeed real—but was it designed for cat-and-mouse with a temperance posse? Well….George Mace was Kanab’s postmaster, game warden, rancher and the kind of man who kept a daily ledger of everything from livestock prices to rainfall. Here’s a bit of his recounting of the ”Rollaway saloon”.

MAE:

You expecting company George?

GEORGE:

Nope. Looks more like Clint and Boots smelled your biscuits, and didn’t wanna be late for supper. 

CLINT

Boots and I heard another tale about your Rollaway Saloon today, George.

Supposedly, your milking shack was once an open portal straight to hell.

BOOTS

And Mary Chamberlain and her quilting coven marched out with torches and set fire to the thing! Like some frontier Joan of Arc.

MAE

Torches? Quiltin’ coven?

GEORGE

Fellas, if you believe that, I’ll show you a rooster that lays square eggs and a Jersey cow that gives chocolate milk.

WAN

That shack wasn’t burnin’—it was beggin’ for fresh nails and a patch of shade.

GEORGE

John Stine was long gone when we bought the place in 1909. No fire, no booze-run, just a rough little house of slabs. Figured we’d drag it over to the spring and milk some cows.

CLINT

You mean you didn’t fight off moonshiners with your pitchfork?

GEORGE

Nope. We hitched it to the team, slid it down on cottonwood poles. Took most the day. Hardest part was keepin’ the thing square on the runners.

MAE

And makin’ room inside for butter churns and babies.

WAN

We built a milk cellar. Raising mule deer for the government—gettin thirty-five dollars a head. We even feed ‘em the milk from dairy cows. No one ever wrote a ballad about that.

GEORGE

Then we added the lean-to, the porch, and the cellar once the kids outgrew it. Still stands there under them trees.

BOOTS:

You’re telling me that ol saloon served more milk than whiskey? 

GEORGE:

Mhm

BOOTS:

So no saloon brawls, no border drama?

GEORGE

Not unless you count Kanabers callin’ Fredonians “Fried Onions” as border drama.

MAE

We were just tryin’ to live honest, raise a family, and keep my butter movin’ off the shelves.

CLINT

Well thats too bad…I liked the version with the flames.

GEORGE

Sure you did. But truth don’t always come with fireworks.

Sometimes it comes with blisters, cream separators, and a porch that needs sweeping.

MAE:

You boys are gonna stay for supper ain’t ya?

BOOTS & CLINT:

Yes Ma’am. If we aint intrudin too much. 

Oh gosh that’d be swell.

MAE:

The wash pan’s right over there. Clean up and come on inside. 

Narrator:

“Kanab had its share of wild tales. But more often, the real stories were made of work boots, butter molds, and families rolling rough lumber under cottonwood trees—trying to make something last.”

So yes… there was a saloon on runners.

But in the end, it bootlegged more milk and butter than whiskey or beer. 

“In truth, while saloons did try to skirt prohibition laws, there’s no documented evidence of a wheeled saloon ever crossing the border like a biblical tabernacle of temptation. Instead, there were barrels hidden in freight, ‘medicinal’ shipments addressed to false names, and more than a few busted stashes poured out in front of the courthouse. This is a case of retold history getting a little tipsy.

SCENE 7 - Chitty Chitty Watermelon 🍉 

NARRATOR:

In the autumn of 1913, the Panama Canal was neared completed, Henry Ford was doubling wages, and Americans were learning that horses might not rule the road much longer.

In the border town of Kanab, Utah—tucked between dust and desert just north of the Arizona border—the petticoat town council had organized a grand fruit festival. Grapes and peaches were hauled up from Utah’s Dixie of Saint George. Melons had been picked fresh from local fields. And Why? Well because a pack of adventurous motorists from the Utah Automobile Club had dared to do what few thought possible:

Drive a car all the way from Salt Lake City to the North Rim trailhead at the Grand Canyon…by way of Kanab.

JOE :

“Y’all hear that? Sounds like a popcorn fire in a coffee can.”

SAMMY :

“Land sakes… that’s one of them modern day marvels! Headin’ straight for the Mercantile!”

FRANK :

I dont think your horse is a fan of that contraption Joe.

JOE:

Whoa Nellie, take it easy ol girl. Dag nabbit you son of a motherless goat.

FRANK:

Ride him Joe. Stay in the middle. Look out for that pole fence. 

JOE :

“Whoa now! I just waxed that saddle!”

SAMMY

Nice riding Joe. You’re better entertainment than this her automobil parade.

FRANK:

I Reckon that contraption’s got more smoke than a town hall barbecue anyhow.”

NARRATOR:

At the wheel of that modern day marvel was John Cecil Alter—a popular and adventurous weather man from Salt Lake, and he was drenched in road dust and grinning like a fool. His wife, Jennie, waved from the passenger seat like royalty on a rattling throne.

MARY:

Hi Jennie. It’s so nice to have you here in Kanab. 

JENNIE:

It’s nice to finally meet you Mary. I’ve heard so much about your city council.

MARY:

Oh well, we were all content as broody hens afore all this fuss.

Thank you for letting us spoil you a little with this Fall Fruitacular. The grapes & peaches were just brought up from Dixie. And the watermelons are from the gardens here in town. 

JENNIE:

Well i must say Mary…those are the biggest watermelons I have ever seen.

Edwin Dilworth Chamberlain:

My brother Royal says the watermelons is big cause we got outhouses over the irrigation ditches.

MARY:

Oh shush Dee. Excuse my son Jennie. Edwin here is my youngest. He likes a tall tale.

Edwin:

No lies from me Mrs Jennie. I was baptized last month. I aint allowed to tell lies no more. 

MARY:

Ok Edwin Dilworth. Go get yourself a ripe peach and find your brother. 

EDWIN:

Yes Mama

JENNIE:

I understand elections are coming up. Are you and the ladies gonna get on the ballot again?

MARY:

Again? An “again” wouldn’t be possible since we technically didn’t run for office the first time. 

JENNIE:

You didnt?

MARY:

Nope. It was a prank by some young ruffians. They submitted our names for the ballot…Although it’s been hard, i think we’ll get the last laugh. 

JENNIE:

From what I’m hearing you got the whole countryside cheering for ya. Folks is encouraged by what you’ve accomplished. Another term and you might just tame this Wild West.

MARY:

We’ve been urged to put in for sure, yet we are not at all selfish, the lot of us are perfectly willing to share the honors with new faces.

JENNIE:

Sounds like a kind way of saying good luck to whomever is crazy enough to seek after the position. 

MARY:

You got that right. Truth be told I want to die while someone will shed tears at my funeral, and not hang on until they say "What a blessing she has gone"!

MARY:

Come on Jennie, let’s get you a slice of that infamous Watermelon. 

NARRATOR:

September 13, 1913, was the day Kanab rolled out its sweetest welcome mat—a fruit festival in full bloom, dust settling on pioneer ambition, and an automobile rattling through with a promise: that the future would come on rubber tires, not just horseshoes. J. Cecil Alter’s drive to the North Rim was more than a meteorologist’s milestone—it was a signal that even remote towns like Kanab were no longer as remote as they once were.

At the end of their 2 year tenure, the all woman town council of wives, mothers, teachers, homemakers, and nurses—didn’t just clean up the streets, they rewrote what civic duty looked like… one fruit festival, one ordinance, one thwarted liquor heist, one bird saved, and one stray cow at a time.”

Here’s to the Petticoat Council of Kanab, Utah.

In the year of our Lord, nineteen-twelve come round,

A new kind of justice was settin’ in town.

With bonnets tied tight and starch in their skirts,

They took on the chaos—and cleaned up the dirt.

With crinoline courage and toddlers in tow,

They passed their new laws while the bread dough would grow.

No time for the gin, no patience for vice,

They leash-trained the dogs and they outlawed the dice.

Their bloomers were bold, their glances were stern,

You’d pay your cow fine—or give up the churn.

They governed with grit, and corsets stay’d tight,

Held council on Sundays—if’n schedules weren’t right.

The loafers would laugh down by the ditchbank,

Till the marshal showed up with a badge and a spank.

Some men took to drinkin’ and snickerin’ still—

But the petticoats passed every blessed dang bill.

Two years they ruled with a prayer and a glare,

A “petticoat council” with backbone to spare.

They cleaned up the streets, and with civic decree—

Made room for a future most folks couldn’t see.

So here’s to the gals with their modest A-line,

Who governed with humor and backbone and spine.

They rocked their babies and put out the flames,

Years wont forget, the strength of those dames.